


From the Echoes of the Ashes

by QueenSabriel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beautiful Golden Fools, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, assume almost all canon characters will appear at some point i'm only tagging major ones, bran and the night king are actually going to do something interesting i promise, cersei married rhaegar but he still died AU, how are you supposed to even tag super long fics, in a world where tywin lannister got what he wanted and immediately regretted it, maybe the real game of thrones was the friends we made along the way, most of the wolves don't die au, no seriously i have feelings abt missed opportunities and they will be addressed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21935737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenSabriel/pseuds/QueenSabriel
Summary: Nineteen years ago Cersei Lannister was wed to Rhaegar Targaryen -- but the rebellion still came with all its death and horror. Now as Westeros plunges itself into a war both familiar and new, and two dragon queens come into their power in the east, a true threat far beyond anyone's expectations or control looms in the north and may force the seven kingdoms to unite in a way they never have before, or be forever destroyed.((see a/n for a few more notes/warnings))
Relationships: Asha Greyjoy/Original Female Character(s), Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Cersei Lannister/Rhaegar Targaryen (past), Jaime Lannister & Oberyn Martell, Jaime Lannister/Elia Martell (past)
Comments: 62
Kudos: 109





	1. Catelyn

**Author's Note:**

> \- This timeline is slightly different from both the show and the books. To keep characters aged up but not mess with earlier events, the GoT era begins 16-17ish years after Robert's Rebellion ended.  
> \- The story also draws on a few things that were in the books but not the show, and in the show but not the books, so it's an AU of both that can be read by fans of either  
> \- y'all the timeline i wrote of the 35 year BACKSTORY alone is 4k words what the heck that's not even the actual fic???
> 
> \- The tagged the characters and ships are the ones that will be at the forefront, others will be mentioned and involved, and others may be added later on.  
> \- Graphic/explicit content is on par with the books and show, same goes for content warnings, exceptions being that rape and underage sex, while mentioned/referenced, will only actually have happened off-screen or in the past and not elaborated on in detail.
> 
> Huge shout out to batard_loaf and closetcellist for beta-ing and also letting me talk about this AU just like, a lot <3

The royal procession arrived in early afternoon, beneath a sky such a pale blue as to be nearly white, as clear and cold as the late summer snows that still lingered in roadside ditches and forest gullies and painted the furrowed fields in long, irregular bands. The wan, low-hanging sun shone down, glinting off armor and illuminating the yellow-gold banners of House Baratheon that fluttered overhead. In mere moments the yard of Winterfell was teeming with all the folk who had accompanied the king and queen on their journey north: knights and free-riders and servants and camp followers and countless others.

At the front of them all rode King Robert. It had been more than four years since Catelyn last saw her good-brother, since the last time he and Lysa and the children made the long journey from King’s Landing to Winterfell. Robert did not appear to have changed much, he was still a huge boar of a man, six and a half feet tall, broad of chest (broad of everything), ruddy faced beneath the coarse black beard that covered chin and jowls. Beside the king rode Catelyn’s nephew, Prince Raymont, a handsome boy of fifteen who had all the Tully looks painted in the complexion of the Baratheons. He was the darling of the kingdom, and it was easy to see why when he smiled, his blue eyes catching the light and shining all the brighter.

Behind the king rode two of his white-cloaked kingsguard. Catelyn’s eyes glanced over them, and then fell upon another familiar face amidst the men dismounting from their horses just inside the gate. Petyr Baelish had been looking at the king as he dismounted, but as though he sensed Catelyn’s gaze he met her eyes and smiled at her. Catelyn gave only a halfhearted smile in return, wondering vaguely why he had come, and thinking also that she probably did not need to know the answer.

Before she could say anything to Ned, however, King Robert had been helped from his horse and was striding over to them.

“Gods it’s good to see your frozen face again,” the king said as he came to a stop before Ned. His voice boomed over the hush that had fallen over the yard. “Though I’m fairly certain I requested there be no snow. Is this how you welcome your king, eh? With disobedience?”

“Would that I could control the weather, your grace,” Ned said, gravely, but there was laughter in his eyes that warmed Catelyn, just a little. “A great many things might be different.”

Robert shook his head in mock disappointment, then chuckled and the two men embraced one another. Then Robert turned to Catelyn, still smiling. “Cat,” he said, taking her in an embrace as well and pressing a brotherly kiss to her cheek. “How a beauty like you manages to bloom in this desolate place I will never know, but you are flourishing as always.” He gave her shoulders a light squeeze, and moved on to greet his nieces and nephews.

Catelyn glanced back at Petyr Baelish again, but his attention, and the attention of most of the others, was on the open gate where two more kingsguard knights walked on either side of Lysa and Princess Jocelyn. They had been traveling in a wheelhouse so massive it had to be left outside the walls, leaving them to enter on foot. Catelyn wondered if the slightly sour expression on her sister’s face had to do with the king leaving them to do so on their own.

When Lysa saw her, however, all trace of sourness disappeared and she smiled the sweet smile that took Catelyn back to their days as girls at Riverrun. Letting go both her lord husband’s arm and proper custom for just a moment, Catelyn strode forward to meet her sister. The two women embraced fiercely, and Catelyn kept ahold of one of Lysa’s hands even as they drew back. She embraced her niece as well, hugging the young girl to her side for a moment.

“I’ve missed you,” Catelyn said to Lysa. “I’m so glad you’ve come. How was the journey?”

“Wretched,” Lysa breathed, squeezing her hand. “I do not know how you can stand it here, Cat.”

Ned joined them then, smiling, though he took Lysa’s hand and kissed it with a slight bow.

“Ned,” she said with a bemused click of her tongue. Stepping forward she presented her cheek for him to kiss as well, saying, “It drives Robert mad how formal you are!”

“You know how he is,” Catelyn murmured fondly, turning to take Ned’s arm once again.

“It is good to see you, Lysa,” Ned said, with an obliging smile. “You’re looking quite well.”

The sound of a loud, girlish squeal followed by delighted laughter made them all turn. Princess Jocelyn and Sansa had run towards each other and collided in a tangle of limbs that nearly sent both girls to the muddy ground. Arya was laughing hysterically, though they ignored her, and Prince Raymont and Robb hadturned from where they were talking to watch the girls with amusement playing over their features.

“Sansa,” Catelyn chided, but none-too-sternly. It was good that the two cousins remained so fond of one another despite the distance between them, but this thought was not without a pang of regret as well.

When she and Lysa had first learned that Lysa was to marry the king, a man known to already be like a brother to Catelyn’s own husband, they had spoken often of raising their children together. But Ned was the Lord of Winterfell, and though Robert had offered him the position of Hand first, he had refused, citing family duty and that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Catelyn knew this was not the whole truth; the south held too many ghosts for Ned to ever be truly settled in King’s Landing.

“Ned!” Robert bellowed. “Come, take me down to the crypts, I wish to pay my respects.”

Catelyn glanced out of the corner of her eye at Lysa as Ned turned to join the king. But if Lysa felt any resentment towards her husband, it didn’t show on her thin face. She watched them go, then tugged on Catelyn’s sleeve, nodding to something just behind her.

“Cat, it’s so good to see you.”

It was not easy to keep her smile as she turned, but she managed with a murmured, “Lord Baelish.” She offered her hand to Petyr, let him touch a light kiss to her fingers, then drew it back, taking Lysa’s arm. “What a pleasant surprise, I did not realize you had come as well.”

Petyr smiled, his eyes never leaving hers. “Her grace had been so kind as to invite me, so I thought why not.” That smile grew, just a little. “If only for old times...the three of us together once again.”

Catelyn smiled and hummed. Lysa was watching Ned and Robert leave the yard, heading for the passage down to the crypts. Her face remained impassive, but now her fingers dug just a little harder into Catelyn’s arm.

She could hardly fault Lysa her resentment. It was difficult, living and loving in the shadow of some woman you never knew.

“And the north is so lovely,” Petyr murmured. “Though I must admit, I do find it rather...cold.”

* * *

When Catelyn finally retired to her rooms for the evening Ned was still off with Robert, in the study or the solar or the great hall, drinking or planning or reminiscing. Outside the winds blew, rattling the windows and sending little whorls of powdery snow across the frozen dirt of the yard. The hour was late, and exhaustion after a long day tugged at her, but Catelyn had not even time to begin to change her clothing when there came a soft knock at the door.

It was one of Lysa’s maids, a demure, plain looking girl with a long face and mousy hair. “Lady Stark,” she said to Catelyn’s feet. “Please, forgive the interruption at such a late hour. Her grace requested you join her in the sept.”

Catelyn frowned. The sept? They had both been named in the light of the Seven, of course, but Catelyn had always kept the faith far more diligently than her sister. They had shared many things growing up but prayer was not one of them. And so late as well. But if Lysa wished to speak, why had she not simply come here, to Catelyn’s rooms? Or summoned her to her own?

“Thank you, I will go to her in a moment,” Catelyn told the girl, who bowed and scuttled away.

Sighing, Catelyn turned and took her heavy cloak from where it hung on the wall, wrapping it about her and pulling the hood up over her head as though to seal in some of the warmth of her rooms for the journey across the frozen yard.

Winterfell’s sept had been constructed for Catelyn’s benefit, since her lord husband kept the old gods as the Starks had for centuries. It was a humble little building, a mere fraction of a fraction the size of the Great Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing. Catelyn had only been there once, to see her sister wed to King Robert so many years ago, but she remembered that she found that the sheer size and grandiosity of the great sept made her feel more distant from the gods, the cavernous ceiling pushing them high above her, the towering statues less personal than the small idols in her own place of worship.

A man of the kingsguard stood outside the door when she approached. He nodded to Catelyn and held the door open, but said nothing as she passed through.

The light inside was the dim glow of candles, and the air in here was chilled as well. She saw Lysa sitting on the bench before the statue of the Mother, she too was wrapped in a heavy cloak to stave off the cold. Lysa turned when the door closed behind Catelyn, but waited until she was seated to say anything.

“I hope I did not wake you,” Lysa said. “I wished to speak with you in private, and I thought this would be the best way without being overheard or arousing suspicion.”

Catelyn let out a startled laugh. “Arousing suspicion? Whose suspicion are you concerned with?”

“Did you know Tyrion Lannister rode with us as far as Cerwyn?” Lysa said. “He continued on with a group of black brothers to see the Wall.”

This explained nothing. Catelyn knew little about Lord Tywin Lannister’s youngest child, save that people called him the Imp. She gazed at her sister, waiting for her to continue.

“Though he will likely not rejoin us and instead make his own way south again, I have no doubt that there are more than a few in our party taking Lannister gold.”

“Lady Cersei is one of your own ladies-in-waiting,” Catelyn said, confusion obvious in her voice. “They’re loyal to your husband, why would you concern yourself with who is in their employ? What cause would they have to spy on you in the first place?”

Lysa turned wide eyes on her, nostrils flaring in a look that was equal parts fear and fury. “Because of Jon Arryn,” she whispered. “I do not believe his was a natural death.”

“Gods be good, Lysa,” Catelyn breathed, staring at her. “Surely you are not implying…”

“You were not there, Cat,” Lysa said. “You did not see him. We held a tourney for Raymont’s nameday, and Lord Arryn was healthy and robust as a man half his age. A fortnight later he was dead.”

“A sudden illness—”

But Lysa shook her head, reaching for Catelyn’s hands and clutching them tightly in her own. “You were not there,” she said again. “You did not see him. You must believe me.”

Catelyn gazed at her. She did not think that her sister was lying, however...she knew being queen was no easy thing for Lysa. She did not have the gift of charm. Making close friends had never been easy for her, and while she was not a hated queen, Catelyn knew, unfortunately, she was not a particularly beloved one either. Lysa had always been a nervous girl as well, and now thrust into such a forward position, Catelyn could only imagine what that had done to her already not insignificant worries.

“Lysa,” Catelyn murmured. “Think about this with reason—what cause would anyone have to murder him? His brothers are dead, he has but the one surviving nephew...”

“Yes,” Lysa said. “Harold Hardyng. He has already taken lordship of the Vale without contest.”

“Then my question stands, why would anyone, let alone the Lannisters, want him dead?”

Lysa scowled. “I do not know, and that is what worries me, Cat! You don’t know them, the twins are half as mad as King Aerys—”

“Lysa...” Catelyn began, but she stopped herself. Lysa was at least correct in saying she did not know Jaime and Cersei Lannister, having only met them once. What she did know of them mostly came from Ned. He had a wary respect for Ser Jaime, who at seventeen had dealt the final necessary blow for the rebellion by slaying the mad King Aerys. But Ned also said often enough that he did not believe either of them had ever fully recovered from what they suffered during that time.

“I do not understand why Robert is so accepting of them,” Lysa continued.

Catelyn didn’t say anything to that either, but she did raise her eyebrows. She knew the answer. Most of it had to do with the Lannister gold. If Lysa was truly concerned with who might be in the pay of Tywin Lannister she should perhaps look to her own husband. Robert’s appetites were well known, and it was no difficult thing to figure why he would want to keep the favor of the wealthiest family in the seven kingdoms. But there were other whispers as well, one in particular that Catelyn would not have believed has she not heard it from Ned himself, and that was that Robert was more than a little afraid of Jaime Lannister.

And that was, of course, on top of the one very obvious reason why people would call the golden twins a little mad. So perhaps Lysa was not wrong.

“He gives them far too many liberties,” Lysa said, as though reading Catelyn’s mind. “Allowing them to _wed_? As though it were not difficult enough to retain the support of the Faith, Robert lets them flaunt their perversions before the eyes of gods and men, keeps Ser Jaime as the captain of the city watch, forces me to keep Lady Cersei among my closest companions...They have _children_ together _,_ Cat, what sort of twis—”

“Lysa, I agree, I do,” Catelyn assured her. “But what does any of this have to do with Jon Arryn?”

Her sister pursed her lips and breathed out heavily through her nose. “He went to speak with Lady Cersei the day he took ill.”

“Is that so strange?”

“It is and you know that,” Lysa said. “She is my lady in waiting, what business could he possibly have with her? Even if he had business with the family he would have spoken to Ser Jaime, not her. She’s a snake, Cat, she truly is, but she is so beautiful and knows how to manipulate people, no one believes me. Robert will not let me dismiss her from my service, he says it would be too great an offense to their family and that we cannot afford that.”

That, at least, Catelyn could believe.

“She’s jealous,” Lysa continued. “I know that’s it. She probably hates me for taking the crown that once would have been hers. Jon Arryn and Lord Tywin both told Robert he should marry her, did you know that? Robert refused. Lord Tywin was furious, as though Robert could be expected to wed a woman who he himself just made a widow.”

“You believe Cersei Lannister had Jon Arryn killed,” Catelyn said.

“Yes,” Lysa said, her eyes desperate once again. “But as I said before I do not know _why_ , and it frightens me, that she may be plotting something. What if she means to do me harm? What is she means to do my children harm? Or Robert?”

Catelyn sighed. She was exhausted, physically, mentally...and yet Lysa’s words were no small cause for alarm. Her sister was clearly afraid of the Lannister woman, and she did not think this would happen without reason. “Have you spoken of your fears to Robert?”

“He would never listen or believe me if he did,” Lysa said, her grip on Catelyn’s hands almost painful now. “There’s one man he would listen to. You must convince Ned to accept the position of Hand, to come south, to see for himself and to make Robert believe.”

Something cold and heavy settled in the very pit of Catelyn’s stomach. All at once her exhaustion came rushing back in full force. Her eyes burned from the smoke of the candles around them, and the figure of the Mother seemed to waver before her. Vaguely, for just a moment, she wished she had not come out here. She found herself thinking of her rooms, and of her bed, where hopefully by now Ned would be waiting for her.

But Lysa, her sweet sister, was still looking at her with such fear and desperate need in her eyes.

 _Look after her, Cat,_ their father had once said. _Lysa was not born to wear a crown, she will need you._

“I will speak to Ned,” Catelyn murmured, reaching over to put her hand on Lysa’s cheek. “I promise.”

* * *

Her lord husband was indeed waiting for her when she returned, though he was not yet abed himself. Ned turned when she slipped into the room and gave her a lopsided smile. “Cat, where have you been?” He reached for her hands, frowning as he took them. “Were you outside?”

“At the sept,” Catelyn murmured. She let Ned pull her closer, let him push the cloak from her shoulders and then wrap his arms around her. For a moment she closed her eyes, pressing her face to his chest, soaking up the smell of him and the warmth of his embrace. She wished she could remain there. She wished that she could ignore what Lysa had said. She wished that Robert had never come here.

Ned rested his cheek against her hair. “There’s something we must speak about.”

_No, no, I don’t want to hear it. I know what it is and I don’t want to hear it._

“He asked you.” She kept her arms around him, leaning back and looking up at her husband’s face. “Robert asked you to be his hand.”

“Aye, he did.” Ned’s brow furrowed. 

Catelyn closed her eyes for a moment. She felt as though she had missed a step going down stairs, that she had found open air where she expected solid stone. She felt cold, even in the heat of her bedchamber. She felt afraid, even in her husbands arms. Bringing her hands up, she bunched them in the material of Ned’s tunic, holding tight.

“Cat,” he murmured, closing his broad, rough hands around her wrists. “I will refuse him. I will. He’ll rant and roar and bluster but he will understand, I know him.”

Oh Ned, sweet Ned.

She shook her head, opening her eyes finally and looking at him once more. “You cannot,” she said. “You must not. He came all this way to bring you these honors.”

“The Others take his honors.”

“There is another reason, something I must tell you.” It was already too late to turn back. By even hearing what Lysa had said, Catelyn had agreed to help her. What choice did she have? Either Lysa’s fears were baseless, in which case perhaps they could help assuage them, or they were true, and if Catelyn ignored them and the Lannisters _did_ mean the royal family harm...

Ned released his gentle hold on her arms and stroked his fingertips against her temple, brushing her hair back behind her ear. He studied her face, frowning. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Lysa believes Jon Arryn was murdered,” she whispered. “And she believes the Lannisters were involved. Did you know Tyrion Lannister rode north with them? She said he continued on to Castle Black to see the Wall.”

“I did know that, Benjen told me at the feast earlier, he passed the group on his way down.” Ned’s frown deepened. “Does she think he came for some other reason?”

“To spy on her, I think, though she did not say it,” Catelyn said. “She seemed more concerned with Cersei and Jaime.”

Gazing down at her, his brow still furrowed, Ned gave a slow shake of his head. “And what cause would either of them have to kill Jon Arryn? He was no close friend to them, but he held no animosity towards them either, nor they to him as far as I was aware.”

“Lysa did not know,” Catelyn said. “But she told me the circumstances of Jon Arryn’s death were strange, and she said also that he had been to speak with Lady Cersei the day he died.”

“He was the king’s Hand, I am sure he spoke to a great many people every day,” Ned said, but his expression was still wary. “I still do not see what reason they would have. It would gain them nothing, no money, no honors...whatever else they are, none of Lord Tywin’s children are fools.”

“Perhaps he knew something they did not wish him to repeat?”

Now Ned let out a snort. “They’re living in an openly incestuous marriage and have three children together, what could Jon Arryn possibly know that would threaten either of them into committing murder? No, I know you cannot answer that, Cat, I’m only...” He let out a long sigh.

“Lysa is afraid of them,” Catelyn said quietly. “She did not say so, but I could see it in her. She wishes to dismiss Lady Cersei from her service but Robert will not let her.”

“I know you love your sister, I love her as well, and she is my queen,” Ned murmured. “But she has always been...overly cautious. And then Lannister twins are intimidating, I won’t deny it, but that doesn’t mean...”

“Cersei Lannister would have been queen had Robert not killed Rhaegar,” Catelyn murmured. “Do you not think that alone would be cause for her to wish them harm?”

Ned let out a long, weary sigh. She had poked at an old wound, she knew she had, and it sent a pang of regret through her when Ned turned away to sit on the edge of the bed and begin to unlace his boots. He did not look up at Catelyn when he spoke. “Lady Cersei was sixteen years old and heavy with his child the day Rhaegar crowned Lyanna queen of love and beauty instead of her, his own wife. By the time Robert struck Rhaegar down at the Trident, I do not believe Cersei Lannister had any love left for her husband. And I cannot fault her.”

“Love for her husband, perhaps not, but love for the crown...?”

“I know little of what happened to Lady Cersei between the Tourney at Harrenhal and the day we took King’s Landing,” Ned continued, and he finally looked at Catelyn. “She lost the babe, which I think is no surprise. King Aerys had locked her away the same as he had his queen, except unlike with Queen Rhaella he did not allow Cersei to leave when he knew the city would be attacked. I believe he intended to use her to punish Lord Tywin.”

Catelyn was silent, her hands clasped before her, watching Ned.

“You know that I was the one to find them in the throne room,” Ned said. “The twins and Oberyn Martell. When the others joined us the twins made it very clear neither had no desire for the throne.” The frown had returned to Ned’s face, a sharp crease appearing between his brows that Catelyn longed to wipe away.

She moved to stand before him. After a moment, Ned wrapped his arms around her waist, leaning forward and letting his head come to rest against her breast. Catelyn draped one arm around his shoulders and stroked his hair with her other hand.

“My sister is afraid,” she said quietly. “And you know as well as I that Robert would never bring himself to accuse the Lannisters of anything...”

For another long moment Ned said nothing, then, finally— “My lady, are you calling our king, your own sister’s husband, a craven?”

“When it comes to the Lannisters?” Catelyn felt her lips twist in a wry, bitter smile that Ned could not see. “Absolutely.”

Ned let out a breath that might have been laughter, but when he looked up at her his expression was grave. “You know if I say yes you must remain here in Winterfell, Cat. Robb will be lord in my stead, and he will need direction.”

Something tightened in her throat, but she nodded.

“This is what you wish me to do?” he asked.

“I know you would wish to protect Robert as much as I would wish to protect Lysa,” Catelyn whispered. “Of course I do not want you to leave me again, Ned. It terrifies me.”

“I know,” Ned murmured. He tugged her down into his lap, holding her against him, her head to his shoulder, one of his hands burying itself in her hair, the other arm around her waist. But even as they clung to one another they both knew what his answer would have to be.

 _Family, duty, honor,_ Catelyn thought miserably. Damn the last two. Damn them for destroying the first as often as they did. The Others could take duty, they could take honor as well. She only really wanted Ned. She only really wanted her children, all of them, together and safe.

Catelyn took Ned’s face in her hands and kissed him, slow and sweet and sad, drinking in the warmth of his lips on hers, the scratch of his beard against her skin, and all the rest of him: his hands, his arms, his breath against her mouth.

She let out a shuddering breath as he began to undress her, swiftly and easily, and he chuckled at the urgency with which she pushed his tunic off over his head and threw it aside.

For just a moment they forgot the worst of it. They sprawled on the soft furs together, and Ned laughed when she had to blow her hair out of her face, and she laughed when his fingers brushed a sensitive place on her ribs. Then Ned was laying her back against the pillows and laughter turned to needy, breathless little moans as he settled between her legs, his fingers finding her wet and ready for him.

“I love you,” she whispered, gasping as he pushed himself into her. “I love you, Ned, promise you will come back to me.”

“I promise, I swear it,” he murmured against her ear as they moved together. “My lady. My Cat. I will always come back to you.”

* * *

The hunt left the following morning, Robert and Ned, Prince Raymont and Robb and a whole host of men to guard and assist them. Catelyn couldn’t help but feel a little bitter that her short time left with her husband had just been made shorter, though it was a small relief to have such a large part of their guests gone for a few days, to regain some of their home and privacy.

While the girls were at their lessons with Septa Mordane and the younger boys out in the yard with Jon Snow and Ser Rodrick, Catelyn spent a quiet morning with her sister. Lysa did not mention their discussion in the sept before, but she did greet Catelyn after breakfast with a whispered, ‘Thank you’ which no doubt meant she had been already informed of Ned’s final decision.

It was easy to forget dark words whispered in a sept late at night when the sun was shining in the windows and they could hear the sounds of Bran and Rickon laughing out in the yard. Catelyn did her best not to linger, and to instead enjoy the time she had with her sister.

After lunch Lysa said she had business to attend to, so Catelyn took Sansa and Princess Jocelyn for a walk in the godswoods, since the day was still bright and the temperature mild. The two girls walked ahead, arm-in-arm, and Lady trotted placidly and obediently along beside them at the end of her lead. She was the only one of the wolves that did not frighten the princess, perhaps because she was the smallest and the most dog-like, or perhaps because she was the sweetest.

Like Sansa, Catelyn thought, watching her daughter and niece with a fond, sad smile. Ned would be taking both Sansa and Arya south with him, and Bran as well. It made Catelyn’s heart ache all the worse, no matter how much she told herself it would be good for them, that Sansa would flourish and bloom in the south and would be overjoyed to spend more time with her beloved cousin. Arya was likely to get herself into trouble, but she would do that anywhere, and perhaps life at court would temper her a bit (though this may have been wishful thinking.)

Suddenly Lady stopped, tugging on the leash and whining so loudly that a flock of birds took to flight above them.

“Lady, _come on_ ,” Sansa said, frowning a little and pulling on the lead. “What’s the matter with you?”

But the direwolf pup continued to whimper, her tail between her legs and her ears flat on her head, her lovely eyes looking up at Sansa in an expression that chilled Catelyn to the bone.

Hurried footsteps and a cracking twig behind them made Catelyn jump and let out a gasp, but it was only Petyr, hurrying towards them down the path.

“Cat,” he said, breathlessly, and up close she saw his expression was drawn with sorrow. He reached for her arm. “Cat, you must come quickly. It’s Bran. Something terrible has happened.”


	2. Joanna Waters

The wind blowing in through the windows smelled of the sea, but from where she stood in a back corridor of Magister Illyrio's manse, Joanna could not see the water. Instead all that filled her vision were the tops of trees and the buildings of Pentos and far above, a sliver of blue sky. She could hear the city beyond the manse's walls, the by-now familiar sounds of the city; the lowing of oxen, the clatter of wheels on stone, voices hawking wares, music drifting from a dozen different sources. Her mind was not in this city, however, but in another, one on the other side of the Narrow Sea.

She did not hear Viserys come up behind her, and started a little when his hands slid up her ribcage to cup her breasts as he pulled her back against him, his thin fingers kneading lightly.

"I sent someone to find you ages ago, have you been back here this whole time?" he asked, his breath tickling her ear. "Illyrio has something for Daenerys in his study, I need you to go fetch it."

Joanna held her breath, forcing herself not to react with the initial wave of anger that washed over her. Viserys enjoyed it far too much when she fought. Instead, she nudged her elbow into his ribs, and as she turned used her arm to force him away from her.

"Stop it," she said, frowning.

Perhaps she had pushed too far. Viserys' nostrils flared and he made a grab for her, but she stepped nimbly out of his reach. "Do not forget that you are mine to touch when and how I please," he said. "You are mine, and I am your king."

She couldn't stop herself. "Neither of those are yet true."

Viserys slapped her, the crack of his palm hitting her cheek sharp and loud in the empty corridor. But Joanna barely flinched. She gazed at him. "I will bring Illyrio's gift up to Dany's room."

"One day, niece, you will push me too far," Viserys said. He had only five years on her, but one would never guess that from the way he spoke. Now however he showed one of his lightning quick changes of mood and a moment later stepped forward, stroking the cheek he had just struck, then cupping Joanna's face in his hands. He said nothing further, merely pressed a dry kiss to her forehead then stepped back, turning away to stride off down the corridor.

Joanna took a moment, catching her breath and willing her hands to stop shaking before she turned and headed for the nearest stair.

When she reached the magister’s study she was relieved to find only his man servant there, a thin, perpetually bored looking man who always treated her with indifference. For that she was grateful. Magister Illyrio treated Viserys and Dany with nothing but kindness—albeit in a rather simpering manner that Joanna found hollow and irritating—but to him Joanna was no more than Dany's maid, and so he treated her accordingly, which is to say like something less than human. He had never laid a hand on her, but his blunt dismissiveness was nearly as bad as Viserys' entitlement.

The manservant nodded to Joanna but said nothing as he went to retrieve a gown that had been carefully draped over the back of a chair. When he put it in her hands, Joanna couldn't help but marvel at the fine garment. The lavender fabric was as light and cool as a sea breeze in her fingers, it felt as though a draft from the open door might be enough to blow the entire thing away. It was clearly tailored for Dany's much shorter figure, however. If Joanna put it on herself, she doubted it would come much past her knees.

But the cut and translucence of the fabric made something twist unpleasantly in her stomach. Dany was sixteen now, and Joanna only two years her elder, but as much as Viserys was unwilling to protect the little princess, Joanna wanted to do nothing more than keep her safe. Perhaps to some women a dress like this could be a form of armor, but she worried as to what it meant for Dany.

_Viserys is selling her to the Dothraki in exchange for an army_ , Joanna thought as she draped the gown over her arm and left the study. _His own little sister._

More accurately, Viserys was gifting Dany to the Dothraki and hoped they would gift him an army in return. Joanna had read some about the Dothraki and knew that gifts were not the same thing as trades. If Illyrio had told Viserys that an army was promised, this was not the entire truth. Though she was not sure which was worse.

In Daenerys’ rooms, she found both her and Viserys waiting as the servants filled the large tub near the windows. The two siblings stood facing one another, though Dany's violet eyes were on her bare feet, her long hair falling to somewhat hide the troubled expression she wore. When Joanna entered, however, Dany looked up and the pained expression was gone, replaced by her familiar, wide smile. Daenerys was a lovely girl with milk-pale skin and a heart shaped face framed by the striking silver-blonde hair of the Targaryens. There was an innocence about her, even now that she was a woman grown, and the trusting way she looked at Joanna made Joanna's desire to save her from all of this even stronger. She wanted to fling the dress into one of the braziers being used to heat the bathwater in the corner. She wanted to take Dany and flee the manse, flee Pentos.

She wanted to flee all the way back to Westeros.

She wanted to find her mother.

As Joanna walked over to them Viserys snapped at the other servants and sent them from the room. He turned to Joanna then, reaching out to brush his fingers over the dress with an appreciative sound, then gesture for Dany to touch it as well.

"It's beautiful," Dany whispered, reaching out to stroke the fabric.

This close the anxiety was apparent once again in her posture and expression. When Dany glanced up Joanna did her best to smile reassuringly. She looked to Viserys again. He was watching them, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and when Joanna met his gaze he smiled a thin, serpent's smile.

"When they write the history of my reign, they will say it began today," he said.

Neither Joanna nor Dany responded. Dany seemed unsure of how to respond. Joanna simply did not want to.

“I do not understand why neither of you seem happy about this,” Viserys said, annoyance cutting into his words. "It is victory for you both as well—someday soon the three of us will take Westeros just as Aegon and his two wives did. And just as they did, you both will rule beside me."

Joanna looked down and moved to drape the dress carefully over the back of a chair. "I thought Dany is to wed Khal Drogo. I'm not sure he would take too kindly to having his bride stolen by her own brother."

She shouldn't have said that. She knew she shouldn't have, not after already rousing Viserys' ire less than an hour before. But she hated this situation, she hated being Joanna Waters, a servant, she hated being powerless, having to put up with Illyrio's disdain, having to put up with Viserys' wandering hands and possessive, jealous nature. Hated not being able to stop him from using Dany. If Viserys was allowed to have a temper, why not she? And in her present station she could hardly draw a blade, which left her nothing to fight with but her words.

Unfortunately fighting Viserys Targaryen with words was about as futile as trying to convince a Dothraki _khalasar_ to cross the sea.

Viserys' hand shot out, burying itself in Joanna's reddish-brown hair. Dany let out a gasp, and despite herself Joanna did too when Viserys yanked sharply on her hair, forcing her to her knees in front of him.

"Never speak to me like that again!" he snarled, his face twisted and ugly in its fury. "Do you wish to wake the dragon? Well? _Do you_?"

Joanna closed her eyes, willing the tears of pain to remain unshed.

"Answer me!" Viserys hissed, giving her head a rough shake.

_You are not a dragon. My father was the last dragon, not you._

Joanna forced the thought and words away, deep into a distant corner of her heart. She opened her eyes, welling with unshed tears and looked up at Viserys. "No, Uncle, do forgive me."

“Viserys,” Dany said. “Please, let her go. I’m sure she’s just tired, she didn’t mean to offend you...”

Joanna _had_ meant to offend him, but she did not say that. Finally Viserys let go of her hair and stepped back. “Get Daenerys bathed and changed. We must go meet Khal Drogo soon." He glared at them both, then turned and strode from the room.

Once he was gone, Dany crouched down beside Joanna. "You shouldn't upset him like that."

"I'm not afraid of him," Joanna said, bitterly. She reached up to rub her aching scalp.

Dany wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly looking very young and very small. "I do not want to marry Khal Drogo," she whispered. "I do not want you to marry Viserys. I just want to go home."

"I know, Dany," Joanna whispered, reaching out to stroke her hair. "I don't particularly want to marry Viserys either, but that is what our family has done since old Valyria. Your parents were brother and sister."

"Yours weren't," Dany said.

For a moment they gazed at one another. Joanna let out a slow breath. She usually worked so hard to keep her feelings hidden, she always had, but Dany was the only person she let see them, even in such small glimpses.

_Viserys will never take us home_ , she wanted to say. But she didn't.

Daenerys reached for her then, pulling Joanna into her soft, sweet embrace. With her lips close to Joanna's ear she whispered reassurances to her. She called Joanna by her real name, knowing this would help, would remind Joanna of who she truly was, even if it did not change what they would still have to face.

* * *

The Dothraki, Joanna knew, were a nomadic people and spent most of the year moving their herds of finely bred horses across the vast grassy planes known as the Dothraki sea, but Khal Drogo, Dany's soon-to-be-husband, was wealthy and prestigious enough that he also owned an enormous manse in Pentos. It was to this manse that Dany, Viserys and Joanna travelled that evening, with Illyrio following in his own palanquin. Dany wore the new dress, which looked stunning on her but left little to the imagination, Viserys was in his usual silks and embroidered finery, and Joanna was dressed as a princess' handmaid should be, which is to say nice, but not fine enough to outshine her lady.

The gardens of the manse were already crowded with guests when they were shown through. Lanterns hung from the trees, bathing the scene below in a gentle glow. For a moment Joanna even forgot to be worried as she gazed around at the sea of faces. She saw bravos and sellswords from all over the Free Cities, merchants whose clothing glittered with thread-of-gold embroidery, men from Tyrosh with forked beards and hair dyed every color imaginable, and, of course, most of all the Dothraki, with their painted leather vests and silver bells hanging from their long oiled braids. The air smelled of perfumes and ripe fruits and skin still warmed by the heat that lingered even after the sun went down.

"We're the only women here," Dany whispered, and she reached for Joanna's hand for just a moment, holding it tightly. Joanna had not realized that until she pointed it out, but then it seemed obvious.

Illyrio joined them then, moving to stand between Dany and Viserys. He pointed to three large Dothraki men standing by one of the large fountains. "Those are Drogo's bloodriders," he said. "His closest companions and right-hand men, so to speak."

Joanna studied the three men. They were all strong and stern, their hair dark and braided and hung with many bells and bronze rings. Their faces looked hard, though whether this was an indication of their personalities, or simply distaste for their surroundings was impossible to say.

She was distracted then by another man, remarkable only for his manner of dress. Joanna started to open her mouth, remembered herself, and instead subtly nudged Dany, directing her attention to the man.

"Who is that?" Dany asked Illyrio. "The man over there. Is he from Westeros?"

"He is, princess," Illyrio said, nodding. "That is Ser Jorah Mormont, a knight anointed by the High Septon himself."

"What is he doing here?" Dany asked.

"Fleeing the usurper same as yourself, princess," Illyrio replied. "He was convicted of selling to a slaver—a ridiculous charge, the men were poachers he had caught on his own land."

"A ridiculous charge indeed," Viserys said with a scoff. "When I am king men won't be punished for such trifles. I shall want to speak with him tonight. A knight would be a useful ally."

Joanna looked at Ser Jorah again, studying him. She vaguely recalled that the Mormonts were a northern house, pledged to the Starks of Winterfell. This man was older, past forty, with thinning hair and a face that had seen a great deal of hardship. Part of her heart leapt at the chance to speak with someone from their homeland, but years of running from Robert Baratheon's hired blades made her cautious as well, and left her unsure how to feel about his presence here.

Beside her, Illyrio put a hand on Daenerys' shoulder. "Over there, sweet princess, there is the _khal_ himself."

Joanna looked at the same time Dany did. Khal Drogo was younger than she had been imagining, though she did not know why she expected him to be old. He was taller than nearly all the men around him, his brown skin gleaming, his eyes sharp. Bronze and gold rings glinted in his beard and mustache, and his braid was longer than any of the others' and hung with far more bells. He was also incredibly handsome, well-muscled and moved with both grace and surety. But looks said nothing to a man's demeanor, Joanna would have to meet him properly before she could decide whether he would prove to be a good husband to Dany or no.

Illyrio bid them wait while he went and greeted the _khal_. As he slipped off through the crowd, Viserys stepped forward and took Illyrio's place by their side. "Dothraki cut their braids when they are defeated in battle," he said. "Do you see how long Drogo's is, sweet sister? He has never been defeated."

Joanna looked at Daenerys and her heart ached as she took in her aunt's expression. Dany looked terrified.

"I do not want to marry him," she said in a thin, desperate voice. "Please, Viserys, I just want to go home."

"Home? How will we go home?" Viserys hissed. "They took our home from us. The only way we may go home is with an army, Khal Drogo's army, so you will wed him, and you will spread your legs for him and any other man he wishes to let have you. Or his horse, for all I care."

Joanna scoffed, loudly, hoping to draw his anger from Dany on to her.

Viserys looked at her sharply. "What was that?"

"Dothraki don't fuck their horses," she said, her gaze on Magister Illyrio and Khal Drogo. "That's an ugly story told by men too foolish to understand different peoples. And you're not a foolish man, Uncle, are you? Of course you aren't."

She would pay for that comment later, she could read it in his eyes, but Viserys was not quite so foolish as to strike or fight her when they were guests of the _khal_. Besides, Illyrio was making his way back towards him, Drogo following and behind him his three bloodriders with their hard faces and curved _arakhs_ hanging from their belts.

Joanna stepped away several paces into the shadow of the arch behind them, bowing her head and adopting a servant's posture. Viserys said something to Dany and she stood up straighter, smiling a sweet little smile that Joanna could see through immediately.

Illyrio was speaking to the _khal_ in the Dothraki tongue, of which Joanna knew nothing, but she caught Daenerys and Viserys' names in amongst the unfamiliar words. Then Illyrio fell silent and Drogo took one step forward. The _khal_ regarded Dany, looking her over for a moment. He tilted his head back to listen to something one of his bloodriders said, then without so much as a nod he turned and walked off.

Viserys looked from the _khal_ to Illyrio. "Was that it? Did he like her?"

"Believe me, your grace," Illyrio said. "We would know if he did not. Come, let's get you and the princess a drink…"

As she was led away by her brother and Illyrio, Dany looked back over her shoulder at Joanna with a slightly desperate look, but Joanna did not dare follow. Those servants who were not actively serving food or drink seemed to be lingering only at the edges of the gardens, and she did not want to draw more attention to herself than necessary.

Someone touched her arm, and when she turned she was startled to see that it was Ser Jorah Mormont. He looked even older and wearier up close, where she could see the lines at the corners of his eyes and the shadows beneath them.

"Forgive me," the knight said. "I did not mean to startle you. You're Princess Daenerys' maid, are you not?"

"Yes, ser," she said, watching him. "Joanna Waters."

"Waters," Ser Jorah repeated. "You're a…"

"I'm Ser Willem Darry's natural daughter," Joanna said, as she had said many times before to different people. "My father was—"

But Mormont nodded, laughing, though not unkindly. "Yes, I know who Ser Willem Darry was, child. I rode against him in a tourney many years ago. I did not, however, realize that he had a daughter, natural born or otherwise."

Joanna gazed at him and gave a small shrug. He was studying her face intently, a little too intently for her liking.

"Your mother must have been a beauty," he said, continuing to peer at her. "Those eyes of yours are like emeralds."

"I do not remember my mother," she said quickly, which was mostly true. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered a woman with blonde hair leaning over her, but the face was indistinct, and it was just as likely she was remembering her grandmother, Queen Rhaella, with whom she had spent most of the second year of her life at Dragonstone.

Ser Jorah did not cease to look at her in that disconcerting, intent way, but Joanna was unable to find an excuse to leave. After a moment or two more she simply turned, wordlessly, and strode off.

* * *

If she had thought that was the last she would see of Ser Jorah, however, she was mistaken. He had, apparently, offered his sword to Viserys that night at Drogo's manse and Viserys had readily accepted, and now the knight was their constant companion. In the days leading up to Dany's wedding to Khal Drogo, they had moved to his manse from Illyrio's, and Joanna found herself relocated to an even smaller room further from Dany.

Still, it wouldn't be for much longer; as soon as Dany wed the _khal_ , they would be joining his massive host and riding out from Pentos, crossing the continent to the Dothraki sea and, eventually, their capitol of Vaes Dothrak.

One evening she was returning from spending time with Dany when she rounded the corner and saw the door to her little room was open. Joanna frowned, then strode forward, her hand clenched into a fist. If she was being perfectly honest she was expecting it to be Viserys, but when she stepped into the doorway she saw Ser Jorah crouching in the middle of the room looking at something he had laid on the floor.

"What are you doing?!" Joanna demanded, hitting her fist against the open door to get his attention. In a quick glance she saw that the trunk at the end of her bed had been opened, and she felt sick for a moment, knowing what Ser Jorah must have found.

The knight slowly looked up at her. He didn't seem angry, or frightened. She wasn't sure what the look on his face was. Holding her gaze, Jorah pointed slowly at the longsword lying on the floor beside him. It was a magnificent weapon, delicately crafted, with a large ruby set in the crossguard and a gold pommel shaped to look like flames. Jorah had pulled the blade out of the scabbard, and even in the dim light of the room it shone with the tell-tale waves of Valyrian steel.

"That," Ser Jorah said quietly, "is _Dark Sister_. The blade that once belonged to Visenya Targaryen. Why do you have it?"

A hundred plausible lies were ready at the tip of Joanna's tongue, but before she could utter any of them Viserys came up behind her, resting his hand on her shoulder. "What is the matter here?"

Jorah rose to his feet, looking at them. "I thought there was something strange about her," he said, nodding at Joanna. "I did not think Willem Darry would have had a bastard daughter. Certainly not in the time when she would have been born."

Joanna turned her head to look at Viserys. She gave him a hard look, and whispered as quietly as she could, " _Don't_ …"

But Viserys never listened. He was proud and vain and delighted in shocking people, and now was no exception. He gestured to the sword, then he reached up and took a lock of Joanna's hair between his fingers. "This is dyed," he said. "She has that sword because her father bequeathed it to her before he was killed."

"Who is she?" Jorah asked.

Joanna's heart sank. She did not think they should trust him. Viserys clearly thought otherwise.

"She is Rhaenna Targaryen," he said with a slow, wide grin. "The daughter of my brother Rhaegar and his wife Cersei Lannister."


	3. Jaime

One of the burning men began to scream. For all the battles he had fought in, for all the men he had killed and seen killed, Jaime did not think he had ever heard a sound quite so awful as this, that ululating wail amidst the roaring of the flames, rising, rising, rising until it finally stopped all together.

The young man standing beside him doubled over and retched his dinner up into the sand. Jaime said nothing, part of him afraid that should he open his mouth he would only do the same. After a moment the young man straightened, and the lights of the bonfires glistened in his eyes. His cloak looked more copper than gold in this light.

"Lord Commander," he said roughly.

Jaime held a finger to his lips. He glanced back towards the bonfires. He and his dozen gold cloaks stood in a semi-circle around them, and two other figures stood closer, silhouetted against the flames, watching the now silent men burn. Both figures had their backs to him, so he caught the young man's eye again, then jerked his head towards the path back up to the Red Keep. The young man did not hesitate before he turned and slipped off into the darkness.

When Jaime turned back around he found Stannis Baratheon looking at him now with a disapproving frown.

"He was unwell, my lord," Jaime said. His own voice sounded thin and strained.

The dead men had been a thief and a man accused of selling to a slaver. Were his grace King Robert here, the former would have found himself at least given the option to take the black if he did not care to join the other man in losing his head. But King Robert was in the frozen north, and in his place his brother Stannis held authority as acting Hand.

Still, Jaime couldn't help but wonder what Robert would think when he heard about the exact manner in which Stannis had been dispensing justice.

The second figure turned as well. Melisandre of Asshai looked as though she belonged with that backdrop of flame and death. Even with the light behind her, the blood red ruby at her throat glittered, and her eyes held a light in them that made the hairs on the back of Jaime's neck stand on end. He knew he was not the only one made uneasy by her presence, there were plenty of whispers about the exact nature of her relationship with Stannis, some said they were lovers, others said the only seducing she did was luring him from the Faith to the worship of her red god.

Whether she shared his bed or merely his prayers, the bonfires burned on the sands by the bay more and more often, and they spoke for themselves.

The red priestess was walking over to him now, as always her expression impossible to read.

"Is something wrong, Lord Commander?" she asked. As though aware of Jaime's discomfort with how long she tended to prolong eye contact, Melisandre tilted her head a little, leaning in so he could do nothing but meet her eyes. Without waiting for him to answer her question she reached out, very deliberately closing one slim hand around Jaime's right wrist. "Tell me what you see when you look into the flames."

Jaime tugged his arm out of her grasp. He looked away, over her head at the fires. "I see two men having an even worse night than I am."

"You disapprove," Melisandre said.

Of course he disapproved. Jaime knew he wasn't doing very much to hide it either, but as lord commander of the City Watch it was hardly his place to question the acting Hand, so what he said to her instead was, "What do _you_ see when you look into the fire, my lady?"

"Tonight the Lord of Light has shown me a green-eyed chimera stalking a field of ash," she murmured. "A headless man on the back of a giant wolf. And you, Ser Jaime, but not as you stand here before me now."

Jaime raised his eyebrows. "Then how was I, exactly?"

"One foot in snow and the other in flame."

"Well." He wasn't quite sure what to sat to that. He smiled at let and let out a quiet laugh. "I have been known for being unpredictable." With a small bow he turned and retook his position with the other guards a few feet back.

Ser Kean Marbrand had moved to take the spot of the man who had left. Ser Kean was young, but had squired for Jaime once and now commanded the north barracks of the watch. He glanced at Jaime and said out of the corner of his mouth, "What did she say to you?"

"Honestly?" Jaime murmured. "I haven't the faintest fucking idea."

***

It was not until the hour of the wolf that Jaime returned to his family's apartments in the Keep, his body aching with exhaustion, vision blurred, and the screams of the burning men still echoing in the back of his mind. He did not think sleep would come soon or easily, but he changed out of his uniform all the same and slipped into bed, trying his best not to wake Cersei.

He should have known better. No sooner had he settled than she rolled over, nuzzling drowsily at his face as she murmured, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, letting his hand rest on her side. "Go back to sleep."

"Jaime." Even in the dim light filtering in through the sheer curtains he could see her eyes were open.

Letting out a quiet sigh, Jaime shifted a little closer, slipping one arm around her shoulders and using the other to stroke her hair, which was pulled back into a long braid. "Never thought I would say this but I believe I may actually miss King Robert."

"Gods." Cersei scoffed and rolled onto her back, but she didn't push him away when he curled against her, resting his head on her shoulder. "What has Stannis done now?"

"I don't know that I really want to talk about it," Jaime said. "He and that woman are both just deeply unpleasant."

Cersei had closed her eyes and was quiet for so long that Jaime thought she had fallen asleep, then she turned her head and murmured, "There was a letter from Casterly Rock with the courier this evening."

"Oh?" Jaime knew he should be at least trying to sleep. Despite the late night he had to rise early the following morning to supervise final testing for a new set of recruits for the Watch, but he was so desperate for anything to chase the evening's images from his mind that he did not close his eyes just yet. "How's Joff doing?"

Looking up at Cersei's face he could just see her lips quirk in the faintest of smiles. "He said Father and Ser Addam are torturing him."

"Torturing him." Jaime let out a breathless laugh.

"It isn't funny," Cersei murmured, though even she sounded amused by their eldest's characteristic melodramatics. "He's miserable there."

Jaime pressed a kiss to her ear. "Joff's not miserable, he's unhappy because I told Addam not to go easy on him and he doesn't have Father wrapped around his little finger, so they're actually forcing him to apply himself for once."

"Unlike us." Now Cersei sounded miffed. She still took their father's suggestion that they send Joffrey to squire at Casterly Rock for one of Jaime's childhood friends as a personal slight against her parenting. Jaime was too tired to argue with her about it now, so he let her sigh and huff. "He says he's tired of it and wishes to return home."

"I know you miss him," Jaime murmured, closing his eyes finally. He draped an arm around her. "I do too, but this is good for him. You know that. And we'll see him again soon."

***

He did not sleep much that night, and when he did it was troubled, even with Cersei's reassuring and familiar presence beside him. Despite his exhaustion Jaime was up at the break of dawn the next morning, first out in the yard to inspect the new recruits, then while the other officers ran them through their drills, up on a platform overlooking the yard with a pile of papers in front of him. With Littlefinger having accompanied the king and queen to the north, Jaime had been able to put off the incredibly tedious task of reviewing things like budgets and pay ledgers that all needed his signature, but he couldn't ignore them forever.

Jaime looked upwards. High above, the Tower of the Hand rose dark and imposing against the blue summer sky. It was unoccupied now, and Jaime felt a strange tug in his gut when he looked up at the structure. He had been no close friend of Jon Arryn but had liked the man well enough, had felt sorry for his death, but deeply puzzled as well over the whole thing. An illness, Grand Maester Pycelle insisted, but Cersei had seemed to think otherwise and Jaime was slightly more inclined to believe her.

He looked at the papers again, and now leaned over them, forcing himself to focus. He used his pinky to follow the lines of neatly recorded names and supply inventories, but it still took all his focus and he didn't hear anyone approach until someone said his name.

"Ser Jaime."

He looked up sharply. Varys stood over him, dressed in his court finery. He gave Jaime a slight smile.

"Lord Varys," Jaime said. He leaned back in his chair, not standing, one palm resting on the papers he had been reading. "I did not expect to see you this morning, certainly not so early."

"I was passing through," Varys said. "Thought I might come and see how your newest boy is doing. The one Lord Arryn asked you to take on before he died."

Jaime let out a bark of laughter. The eunuch could be impossibly irritating sometimes. "Oh yes, that one. Am I supposed to be surprised that you knew about that? You would be a poor Master of Whispers if you did not, it's hardly as though Lord Arryn were trying to be secretive about it."

"I would never expect to surprise you, Ser," Varys said, and Jaime hated him even more for a moment, unable to tell whether Varys was mocking him or not.

"Well," Jaime gestured down towards the yard, indicating a young dark-haired man at the edge of the ranks. "As you can see he is doing well enough. Insignificant in that he is neither exceptional nor terrible." He smiled and leaned forward, then said in a loud whisper, "I suppose next you're going to confide in me that he is one of King Robert's bastards."

Varys chuckled. "You said it, not I."

"Even were my wife not one of the queen's ladies, I would have to quite intentionally close my eyes and ears to not be aware of His Grace's appetites."

"Ser Jaime," Varys said, feigning disbelief and putting a soft hand to his breast. "That would not be a slight against our queen, would it?"

"You said it, not I," Jaime parroted. "I would _never_ speak ill of Queen Lysa. Certainly not when she treats Cersei with such absolute respect and kindness."

Varys continued to look deeply amused. "Has anyone ever suggested perhaps giving a bit more thought to your words _before_ you open your mouth?"

"Yes," Jaime said. He smiled. "Many people. Constantly. But I wouldn't want you to get the impression that I'm afraid of you. It's not as though anything I've said is a secret. What's the real reason you came to speak with me?"

"A raven arrived from Winterfell this morning. I wished to warn you in case you were thinking of speaking to Lord Stannis at all today."

Jaime raised his eyebrow. "How kind of you. I'm going to hazard a guess that Lord Stark has accepted the position of Hand?"

Varys nodded. "A little bit of a surprise, I must admit."

"Not really," Jaime murmured. "Robert convinced me and Cersei to return to this damned place, and Lord Stark is the one who actually enjoys his company."

"As you say." Varys gave him a rather simpering smile. "Though while we're speaking of your lady wife, there is another question that's been vexing me of late…"

Jaime gazed at him, wordlessly. He trusted the spider even less when he spoke in that casual, offhanded manner.

"You wouldn't happen to know why Lord Arryn went to speak with Lady Cersei the day he died, would you? It's such a curious thing."

Now Jaime smiled, bemused. "I can't say I have the faintest idea."

"Mmm." Varys gazed at him for a long moment, returning the smile in kind. "You know it's actually quite a good thing the gods did not give you the same skill with lies as you have with a sword, Ser Jaime. You might be quite unstoppable otherwise."

***

The throne room was filled to bursting with supplicants and petitioners and gawkers alike. This afternoon Lord Stannis was hearing pleas of the common folk, a task favored by few leaders. Jaime had heard Robert complain that settling disputes between petty lords or granting guards and supplies to minor holdfasts or nearly nameless little villages hardly felt worth the trouble it took to sit on the throne. Stannis, at least, had some idea the value of such things, even if he didn't enjoy it.

Jaime didn't particularly enjoy being in the throne room for any reason, even though it looked nothing like it had that day seventeen years ago. The dragon skulls were gone, replaced by lavish tapestries and fanciful vines crawling across the walls and up to the ceiling. But the large braziers around the base of the main pillars were still there. And of course the throne never changed.

Cersei was standing at the far end of the room nearest the throne. She was tactful with her appearances at court; she never wanted to give the idea that she might be avoiding it, but he knew there were long stretches of time when she felt loath to speak with anyone else. The more visitors and courtiers were jammed into the room, the less likely she was to be singled out and approached. She did not join the queen's other ladies much either, few of them liked her.

Jaime thought vaguely of a joke Tyrion had made that when the gods split them in two, they gave him all the charisma and Cersei all the common sense.

As though sensing his approach, Cersei turned a second before Jaime reached her. She took his arm, pulling him close to her side, then murmured out of the corner of her mouth, "Father once said never trust anyone who looks comfortable on the Iron Throne. Lord Stannis seems quite at home up there, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't trust Stannis Baratheon even if he were squirming like an eel on it," Jaime said. "But it's no matter—Ned Stark's accepted the position of Hand, we won't have to deal with Stannis much longer."

Cersei looked at him sharply. "How do you know that?"

"Varys told me this morning."

"Come," Cersei whispered, tugging on his arm and steering him through the crowd to a small alcove in the back wall beneath a burning oil lamp. "What did Varys want?"

"He wanted to know why Jon Arryn came to speak with you the day he died," Jaime said. He glanced past her to the throne. Backlit as it was by the light streaming in the great window behind it, the mass of spikes and barbs was little more than a vicious shadow swallowing the man who sat on it, but he could make out enough of Stannis to see his posture, stiff and confident.

Jaime did not remember much about killing King Aerys. That whole day had been a sickening blur, even when fresh in his memory. He and Oberyn had been riding mad dash from Casterly Rock in the days before, barely stopping to sleep or eat, already half out of their minds with rage and grief and fear that they would arrive too late. He remembered the look on his father's face when they strode into the Lannister camp outside the city walls. He remembered the look on Cersei's face when they had burst into her room in Maegor's Holdfast. But he did not remember the actual act of driving his sword through the Mad King.

" _Jaime_." Cersei's voice cut through his thoughts. She was frowning up at him, one hand on his chest. "Did you tell Varys it was none of his business?" She said this in the tone of someone who had been forced to repeat herself one too many times.

"I said I had no idea," Jaime said, giving a slight shrug.

"You're a terrible liar," she scoffed.

He gave her a tight smile. "So I've been told. But it doesn't matter, you know Varys wouldn't have asked if he did not already suspect."

Cersei bared her teeth, letting out a quiet, frustrated sound.

"She wouldn't have remained a secret forever," Jaime murmured.

"Shut _up_ ," Cersei hissed, glaring at him. "Gods, not here. Shut up."

Jaime held up his hands.

"I know you did not sleep well last night but you're being impossible," Cersei said. "Where is your brain today?"

”Perhaps my other half is using all of it by thinking too much.”

Cersei clearly was not in the mood for quips of any sort, letting out a frustrated huff as she took his arm and steered him back down the length of the room towards the doors. Jaime could see and feel eyes on them and did not have to look too long to know the expression those eyes would wear. Disdain. Fascination. Morbid curiosity. Judgement. They were the same looks that had been greeting the two of them for nearly two decades now. He couldn't care less.

He told himself he couldn't care less.

They left the throne room and stepped into the main hall outside, which was still crowded but not quite as much. Jaime's arm, reacting to the looks in her own way with a possessive hold and a defiant tilt of her jaw. "I assume Varys knew because there was a raven? Was there any news of our brother?"

"If there was Varys didn't say," Jaime said. "Tyrion was planning on going straight to Castle Black, I believe, I don't think he intended to spend any time at Winterfell."

Cersei made a quiet noise. "Not unless the Starks keep a brothel."

"That's unkind."

"It's true," Cersei said, giving him a sharp look. "I still do not understand why Tyrion wanted to go there, even if it didn't mean spending months on the road with the king's men."

They were starting up a flight of broad stone stairs then. To their right, windows looked out far across the city to the waters of Blackwater Bay, deep blue and glittering in the afternoon sun. The Lannister apartments were not in Maegor's Holdfast with those of the royal family, but in the main body of the Red Keep in a wing generally used to house guests. When they first arrived at King's Landing they had been offered rooms within the more secure walls of the holdfast, but Cersei had gone pale at that and responded that she would rather live in one of Petyr Baelish's brothels.

Jaime had not been surprised and had not argued. King Aerys had kept Cersei isolated in Maegor's Holdfast for over a year, first with only her newborn babe and Queen Rhaella as company, and once they were gone, with only her grief. It was bad enough that Cersei had to attend Queen Lysa there.

Their apartments in the Keep were pleasant enough, large and open and airy, with a solar and private bedrooms for them and their children. Myrcella and Tommen were at their lessons still, so when Jaime and Cersei entered the solar the only person there was Cersei's maid, Nira, a slender and fay woman with a wild mass of black, wavy hair. She was just coming out of their bedroom with a basket of laundry when they came in.

"Nira, please tell the kitchens we'll take our lunch here," Cersei said to her. "Then you may have the afternoon if you like."

Nira curtseyed, giving them each a nod before continuing out.

Once the door closed behind her, Jaime turned to Cersei. "Will you tell me what Jon Arryn said to you now?"

"He found some whore in Flea Bottom who had been a maid at Dragonstone when Rhaella was there," Cersei said. She wrapped her arms around herself and did not look at him.

Jaime swore softly. "Did you—"

"The woman's been dealt with," Cersei murmured. Then she closed her eyes, and her shoulders dropped, her head tilting down. When she spoke, there was a pained tone in her voice. "It may not even matter. I do not know if she survived this long, there is nothing to go on to say she has. All we have heard are stories of the _two_ Targaryens. I am certain she fled with them. When I last went with the king and queen to Dragonstone I looked and looked and asked questions of the staff but there was no one there who could have been her. But she may be lost. Or dead. Or worse."

"Wherever she is, alive or dead," Jaime said quietly, "if Robert finds out that you lied to protect her…"

"Why should he care?" Cersei said, bitterly. "If my daughter is dead then she is no threat to him."

"He will still be furious with you for lying. He will say it is evidence that you still have loyalties to the Targaryens, that you tried to protect her because of your love for Rhaegar."

Like a curtain falling over a stage all emotion left Cersei's face. She drew back, clasping her hands before her. "I loved Queen Rhaella, because she was like a mother to me," she whispered. "I loved Rhaenna because she was my sweet daughter. But I stopped loving Rhaegar the day he cast me aside like a broken toy that no longer interested him."

"I know," Jaime said, softly. "I know all of that. But Robert does not know any of that and does not care. Everything he has done for us has been because he needs Father's gold, and even that is not enough to outweigh his hatred of the Targaryens."

Cersei's lips went thin, but a second later she smiled one of her bitter, unhappy smiles, even as she reached up to take Jaime's face in her hands. "Why should I be afraid of Robert Baratheon," she murmured, "when my sweet husband, my beloved brother, has already killed one king who hurt me?"

Jaime gazed down at her. He waited a moment or two then said, "Did you kill Jon Arryn?"

Cersei stared at him. She let her hands fall from his cheeks. "I should slap you. Do you think that I did? That I would do so without telling you?"

"Well?"

"No I did not kill him!" she hissed. "I'm not a fool, Jaime. I considered it, yes, but I would be a little more subtle than as to—what do you think I did? Poison him the same day he came to speak with me?"

"All right, all right," Jaime said, reaching for her hands though she swatted him away. "Calm down. I bring this up because you realize this presents an issue, yes?"

Cersei gazed at him, lips pursed, sucking in her cheeks.

"Varys suspects," Jaime said. "Who knows what he has said to the king and queen. And if Jon Arryn was asking questions, that means other people are involved as well and it will not be long before _someone_ puts the pieces together and even if they do not figure out exactly what it was that Jon Arryn suspected, they very well may at least reach the conclusion that he had learned something about _you_ right before _someone_ killed him. Do you see the problem?"

She clearly did. Her jaw was clenched now, the color draining from her cheeks. "You think I will be accused of killing him, regardless."

"Forget the Targaryens," Jaime murmured. "If Robert believes you killed Jon Arryn, the man who was like a father to him…"

"I know," Cersei snapped, and for a moment looked like she might slap him after all, but all she did was lay one hand heavily on his chest. She pursed her lips, running her tongue over her teeth beneath them.

Jaime covered her hand with his own. "Perhaps we should send Tommen and Myrcella to Casterly Rock," he said quietly.

"No," Cersei murmured. "That would draw too much attention. Not yet. First we must find out who did kill Lord Arryn, and why they did their best to make it seem as though it were me."


	4. Sansa

The silver-gray night world smelled of dirt and snow, wet leaves, the pulse of hot blood in the veins of little creatures scurrying their way through the dark. It also smelled of her lean, yellow-eyed sister snuffling along beside her, easily distracted but noticing everything. These woods smelled of other wolves as well; their brothers mostly, but their strange, smaller, skinnier cousins too. Most of the man-creatures would be in their stone caves when the moon was this high, but she could smell where they had been.

A sudden noise made her stop. It might have been the wind knocking a branch loose somewhere but she held very still, nose in the air and ears pricked. Her sister bumped shoulders with her and she turned to give her a gentle chastisement, teeth snapping in air but nose brushing against familiar gray fur.

Then she heard it again. Voices. And when the wind picked up it brought stronger man-smells.

Ducking her head and crouching low, belly on the ground, she crept forward, finding the shadows beneath the undergrowth, the ones deep enough to hide even her pale fur. She was much smaller than her sister, could slink in more places unseen, and was not surprised when her sister did not follow.

Moonlight bathed the clearing ahead of her. In its cast rose the weirwood, all wraith-white bark and blood red leaves, and beneath those spreading branches stood two figures, wrapped in the furs of other creatures as they were wont to do when the cold winds came.

She stopped, falling still, lying completely down, resting her chin on her front paws as she turned her head to hear better.

A slight woman and a skinny man. The woman was making noises, unhappy ones.

Some part of her mind understood them even as the rest did not, but it was difficult enough to hear the distant murmurs either way.

“ _My on nephew…murmur…murmur…how could you-!...deepest hells…”_

The man was holding her arms, holding her still.

_“Had to my sweet…murmur…murmur…his grace…murmur…Lannnisters.”_

A twig broke with a world shattering _snap_. She lifted her head and turned to find that her sister had grown bored and come to find her. The voices beneath the weirwood had come to an abrupt stop. Annoyed, she snapped at her sister again and this time teeth closed in fur. Her sister yelped and they tussled a little, then behind them the woman let out a startled shout.

Both wolves broke apart and bounded off into the night.

***

Sansa awoke shivering and with the smell of leaves and dirt lingering around her, but that faded as quickly as the strange dream did. Outside the wolves were howling. It seemed as though they hadn’t stopped even for a moment since Bran fell. Sansa rubbed her eyes. She felt uneasy, almost embarrassed, but she couldn’t think why. What had she been dreaming about?

Aunt Lysa and Lord Baelish.

She frowned and rubbed her eyes again. Had that been it? How odd.

Though it was late, very late, Sansa did not think sleep would return to her easily. Outside the sky was dark, and the howling made her feel very small and alone. She felt overwhelmed with a desire to speak with her mother, and so after only a moment’s hesitation Sansa swung her legs out from under the warm covers and slipped her feet into the sheepskin house shoes waiting beside her bed. She crossed the room and took a cloak from its hook on the wall, then swung the door open.

Lady was sitting in the hall outside. She got to her feet when Sansa opened the door, tail wagging. Her large paws looked damp, and when Sansa crouched to embrace her, she found part of a dead weirwood leaf stuck to the side of Lady’s hind leg. For some reason that made Sansa feel...scared.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she told her wolf, but even she thought her voice sounded relieved. She also didn’t think it fair that Lady had to be chained up with the others. She wasn’t vicious like Shaggydog, of wild like Nymeria or Bran’s still unnamed wolf. Grey Wind was all right, Sansa supposed, he was loyal and smart just like Robb. Ghost frightened her. But Lady...Sansa’s own pup was sweeter than any of them. She listened to anything Sansa told her to do, and even Farlan the kennelmaster had remarked how unusually fast the pup took to learning new commands.

Which was why Sansa did not actually send Lady off as she headed down the hall towards the stairs. Even without a lead, Lady padded along close to her side, and with her there Sansa did not feel quite so worried about the nervous feelings that still lingered at the corners of her mind. It had only been a dream after all.

Sansa had not spent much time in Bran’s room since the accident, for which she did feel a little bad. It was not that she didn’t care, she had been as heartbroken as any of them, and had wept for what had felt like hours while her cousin Jocelyn tried to console her. It was just... Bran looked so small and broken in that bed, and Mother rarely left his side, barely speaking to anyone save to tell them to leave her alone. It frightened her a little.

Both of her cousins were being immensely kind. Raymont, ever the noble prince, was so certain and reassuring that Bran would wake, and Jocelyn was kind and sweet and always seemed to know when Sansa was beginning to feel walled in and would suggest they take Lady for a walk.

Her lady mother was alone in the room when Sansa opened the door. During the day Old Nan would usually be in there as well, but now it was just Mother, awake but heavy-eyed, sitting at Bran’s bedside. An embroidery hoop was slipping from her fingers, long forgotten.

Before Sansa could stop her, Lady slipped into the room, heading straight for the bed. She put her paws up on the edge of the mattress, sniffing at Bran’s hand.

“Sansa, take her out of here!” her mother’s voice cut sharply through the silence of the room. “She’s not supposed to be inside, you know that. Send her away.”

Without being told, Lady dropped back to the floor and padded over to Sansa’s side, but she didn’t leave the room. Sansa blinked at her mother, feeling something thick and sad blocking the back of her throat.

Catelyn seemed to focus on Sansa then, and her shoulders slumped, her expression apologetic. She let the embroidery hoop fall and held out her hand to her daughter. “Forgive me, Sansa,” she said quietly. “I should not have been so harsh.”

“Go,” Sansa whispered to Lady, who licked her hand then turned and trotted out of the room. Only then did Sansa walk over to take her mother’s hand, holding it tightly as she knelt on the soft carpet beside her chair. “I had a bad dream,” she said quietly.

Her mother gazed down at her. Even now there was something strange in her eyes, as though she didn’t quite recognize Sansa. After a moment however she asked, “What was your dream about, love?”

“I’m not sure,” Sansa said. “I think Aunt Lysa. And Lord Baelish. But I’m not sure. I felt frightened when I woke.”

“They were the ones who found Bran,” her mother murmured.

Sansa blinked. No one had spoken much about the day Bran fell. Not her parents, not Septa Mordane or Maester Luwin, no one. After Lord Baelish had found her and Mother and Jocelyn in the woods, Sansa and Jocelyn had been sent inside for the rest of the day. They hadn’t even learned that Bran had fallen until much later that evening.

“They were the ones who found him,” Catelyn repeated in that same flat, low voice. “They found him beneath the broken tower. Your aunt was still there when we...she was hysterical...I couldn’t...Ser Rodrick had to...”

“Hush, it’s all right, Mother,” Sansa said. She rubbed her mother’s arm reassuringly, but the gesture looked stiff. She could see tears glistening in her mother’s eyes and found herself selfishly hoping she wasn’t about to cry. Sansa didn’t know what she could do if she did.

But she didn’t, she simply swallowed, then moved her hand to Sansa’s cheek. “My sweet girl. I’ve lost Bran, and now I must lose you and Arya and your father too. Promise me you’ll look after your little sister. Promise me you’ll be kind to her.”

“I will if she doesn’t act like a demon,” Sansa said, frowning. She knew she was being petulant and unfair, and that _of course_ she would look after Arya, but sometimes she was simply so trying. She never behaved like a lady. She was nothing like Jocelyn, for instance. How was Sansa supposed to always be kind and gentle when Arya was so wild and fierce? It would be like trying to feed Shaggydog with your bare hand, knowing he would try to bite your fingers.

“Sansa.” There was such sorrow and pleading in Mother’s eyes when she said her name that it nearly broke Sansa’s heart. Guilt and shame twisted into a painful knot in her tummy.

“I will,” Sansa said. “I promise. I’m sorry.”

“You will fit in far better there than Arya will, I fear,” her mother continued. She sighed heavily, and seemed to curl in on herself. “Sometimes I think that might be worse. You will find your place at court easily but, Gods, that worries me just as much. Oh, I wish I could explain it to you, Sansa. It’s dangerous there. That city, the Red Keep...they swallow people alive.”

When Sansa had first learned she and Arya would be accompanying Father south she had been so excited she could barely sleep or eat. But now, for the first time, she felt afraid of it. Her cousins had done nothing but tell her how much she would love King’s Landing, how exciting and wonderful she would find life there. Jocelyn was convinced that Sansa would have a dozen of the handsomest knights lining up to court her, that perhaps someone would crown her queen of love and beauty at the tourney King Robert would no doubt have in honor of Sansa’s own father, and all Sansa could think about was the romance of it all, how she would be like a lady from a song.

She had never wanted anything more in her life. The prospect had made her breath catch in her throat and her heart skip a beat. They did that again now as she looked up at her mother, but for an entirely different reason.

“What do you mean, dangerous?” she asked.

Mother simply shook her head. “Promise you’ll be careful, my darling girl. Promise me.”

Sansa bit her lip, but she nodded, and did her very best to smile. “I promise.”

***

When Sansa came down to breakfast the following morning, her mouth and eyes feeling as though they were coated in sand following her interrupted sleep, she found only her siblings and cousins at the high table. In the seats usually held by their parents sat Robb and Raymont, talking quietly with their heads together. On Robb’s other side was an empty seat, but Sansa could see the top of Rickon’s head poking up above the table. Then there was Arya, leaning across the table to say something to Jon Snow who sat across from her. He turned when Sansa approached and gave her a tight smile which she was too tired to return.

Jocelyn was seated next to Raymont, and she beamed when she saw Sansa, patting them empty seat beside her. Sansa took it, gratefully, and stifled a yawn as she helped herself to bread still warm from the ovens and two eggs boiled with their yolks still runny. Down at the other end of the table Arya laughed too loud as she licked bacon grease from her fingers.

“Mother is still abed,” Jocelyn confessed to Sansa. “I think she may be ill, I saw your maester going up to her when we came down to breakfast. Father is with your parents.” She smiled then, and gave Sansa’s arm a squeeze. “I know it’s been difficult, but I’m so terribly excited for you to see King’s Landing. I still can’t quite believe it.”

“Neither can I,” Sansa said. She smiled, but even in the morning light the brief conversation she’d had with her mother still lingered in her mind. Leaning a little closer to Jocelyn she whispered, “May I ask you something? Is it dangerous? King’s Landing, I mean.”

Jocelyn blinked slowly. She had lovely grey-green eyes, but they were a bit large for her face and gave her a look of almost constant puzzled innocence, so when she was actually confused the expression grew even more exaggerated as it did now. “Dangerous? What do you mean? I suppose parts of it are. We’re not allowed to leave the Keep without guards, though that may be because Mother thinks we’d get lost. Flea Bottom is dangerous, I suppose, but it’s so filthy I’m not sure why you would even want to go there.”

“What about at court?” Sansa said. “In the Red Keep?”

“There’s guards in the Red Keep,” Jocelyn said with a bemused laugh. “The kingsguard, and the City Watch, and all the knights in the realm are sworn to protect noble ladies like us, Sansa, what ever are you so worried about?”

Sansa could feel herself blushing. “Nothing, I just...heard it could be dangerous. Perhaps that’s not true. That’s why I asked.”

“I mean, the people there _could_ be dangerous, but not to you,” Jocelyn said. “Some of them frighten me. Ser Illyn Payne, Father’s headsman, you’ve seen him, he’s here with us. Though I suppose all knights are dangerous or they wouldn’t be knights. And you do have to be careful. It’s impossible to keep secrets, really. Like when I—” she stopped and lowered her voice even further, “ —when I kissed one of the stableboys, someone had told Father by the time I got back up to the Keep and he was _furious_.”

“You kissed one of—who told your father?” Sansa asked.

Jocelyn shrugged.

“It was Varys,” Raymont said, making both girls jump. He had been leaning over to listen to them, and they had been so wrapped up they hadn’t even noticed. To Sansa he said, “Lord Varys, they call him, but he isn’t a proper lord. He’s Father’s Master of Whispers. They also call him the Spider. And yes, he can be just as dangerous with his words as Ser Illyn or Jaime Lannister with their swords—but Jocelyn is right, Sansa. You don’t need to worry.” He flashed her his bright, charming smile. “You’re our cousin. You’re nearly a princess yourself. None of them will hurt you.”

***

They left Winterfell early one bright clear morning. Despite telling herself she would not, Sansa did cry when she said farewell to Mother. Not as much as Rickon, who spent the entire morning in tears, but it was hard not to weep, even as excited as she was to be starting this new adventure. She managed to be more lady-like when she took her leave of Robb, who embraced her and wished her luck and said how well he thought she would do in the south, and she even thought she managed a very polite goodbye to Jon, telling him she thought it was very noble what he was doing. He had actually smiled at that. Rickon was still crying, but Sansa hugged him and reminded him he must be brave.

Arya seemed to be in an unusually foul mood when they finally climbed into their carriage with Septa Mordane, but at least it was the sort of foul mood that meant she sat curled up with her arms around Nymeria and her face buried in the pup’s fur rather than the sort that involved lots of shouting and hitting things.

The first few days of the journey were uneventful. Sometimes Sansa rode in their family’s carriage, but more often than not she spent the days in the royal wheelhouse with her aunt and Jocelyn. Arya rarely joined her; for whatever reason she seemed more inclined to spend her time on horseback, riding with the knights or up with Raymont and her father.

The forests of the north gave way to the windy, treeless heaths of the Barrowlands. Someone had told Jocelyn that the Barrowlands were full of graves, which was true, but for whatever reason this upset the princess and she refused to leave the wheelhouse even when they stopped to make camp for the evenings and eat meals around the fire. This in turn led to bickering between Aunt Lysa and King Robert, who seemed to think Lysa was coddling Jocelyn too much.

Sansa did not like to hear them fight. Her uncle could be very loud when he shouted, especially if he’d had some wine beforehand. She knew he would never hurt her, but it was still not pleasant to listen to, so for a few days she tried riding, and was pleased to learn that Arya had made friends with some of the other children, leaving Father’s attentions all for Sansa.

One morning after dawn but before camp had broken for the day, Lady woke Sansa the way she did when she needed to be let out of the carriage to relieve herself. But she was still so patient, and waited as Sansa dressed and got her collar and lead.

Her father was already awake and sitting at the fire just outside the carriage when Sansa and Lady came down the steps. He smiled and got to his feet when he saw her, then drew her close and touched a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Taking her for a walk, love?” he asked. “I’ll come along. I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs before another day of riding.”

The morning was cool, and mist hung low in the grass, but the world had a fresh feeling to it. Arm-in-arm with her father, her other hand holding Lady’s lead, Sansa felt more content than she had since they left Winterfell. They left the main circle of the camp, but did not wander too far.

“Are you enjoying the trip?” her father asked when they stopped to let Lady do her business at the base of a tree.

“I suppose,” Sansa said with a small smile. “Mostly I’m eager to get to King’s Landing.”

He laughed quietly at that. “We all are. Even Arya will be tired of the road by the time we get there, I’m sure. Gods willing this weather will hold, and the journey will not take any longer than it has to.”

From behind them came the sound of footsteps. In a flash Lady was back at Sansa’s side, but her tail wagged still and her ears were pricked in curiosity. When Sansa turned, she saw her uncle approaching. Two of his white-cloaked kingsguard were nearby, but they remained at a respectful distance as King Robert approached her and her father.

“Ned,” Robert boomed, clapping him on the shoulder. He turned to Sansa with a gentler smile. “Sansa, you look a picture this morning, but where are you dragging your poor father off to so early?”

Sansa smiled. She was never quite certain how to address her uncle, whether she should treat him like family or like a king. He did seem to always fuss when Father called him ‘your grace,’ though, so she said simply, “He asked to come, I was just taking Lady for a walk.”

“Still don’t understand how you’ve managed to make a beast like that behave so gently,” Robert said, casting Lady a sideways glance that drove some of the smile from Sansa’s face. She didn’t like it when he, or anyone else for that matter, called Lady a ‘beast.’

Her father smiled. “Ah now, Lady’s got a gentle heart, and Sansa’s trained her well.”

“Mmm,” Robert hummed, though Sansa thought he didn’t really seem to believe that. After a moment he pulled a letter from his belt and offered it to her father. “If only the news I brought were so gentle.”

Sansa looked between the two men, but focused on her father as he took the letter and read it. His brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth turning down. Sansa trued to see the seal that still clung to the paper, but all she could see was black wax. At least that meant it wasn’t from Winterfell, that it wasn’t bad news about Bran.

After a moment her father rolled the letter back up. “What is the source of this information?”

“Don’t you worry about that,” said the king. “That’s not the important bit. I want your thoughts on what the information tells us.”

“So Daenerys Targaryen is to wed some horselord, what of it? Shall we send her a wedding gift?”

Robert looked about to say something, but when he glanced at Sansa he hesitated, raising one eyebrow before turning back to Ned. “She’ll be wed, and soon she’ll start having children. And I’ve my suspicions about why Viserys Targaryen’s kept that girl of Willem Darry’s around, bastard or no if he gets a child on her...”

Sansa felt an odd chill run down her spine. She did not know much about the remaining Targaryens, she was only vaguely aware of their existence at all, but something about the tone of the king’s voice when he spoke about them reminded her of the way he said ‘ _beast’_ while looking at Lady. She didn’t care for it. She thought perhaps she should take her leave, but Father seemed upset, and she wanted to help. When he handed the letter back to Robert, Sansa moved to take his arm again. She half expected him to send her away, but he didn’t.

“I should have sent Stannis to Dragonstone sooner than I did,” Robert complained. He squeezed the letter in one large fist, crumbling it a little. “Or gone myself, injuries be damned. Damn Rhaegar. Damn my brother too. Damn all of them.” He seemed to have forgotten Sansa was there. “Surprised Ser Willem even had a child. Always seemed more interested in swords than cunts to me.”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed bright red, and her father cleared his throat, loudly. “Your grace.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Robert said, glancing at Sansa. “I forgot myself. Ned...I’ll speak to you more about this later.” Then, with a brusqueness that would have been rude had he not been the king, Robert turned and strode back to his waiting guards.

Sansa watched him leave. She waited until he was well out of earshot before she looked up at her father. She knew none of this was any of her business or concern, but curiosity got the better of her. “What was he talking about? Why is he worried about the Targaryens? Who’s Willem Darry?”

Her father took a moment to react, but when he did it was with a weary, faint smile. “It is truly nothing you need worry yourself with, sweetling. Ser Willem was the knight who stole Prince Viserys and his sister away from Dragonstone before Lord Stannis stormed it. Robert’s kept a close eye on both of them though they’ve not tried to return to Westeros.”

Sansa gazed up at him. He rarely spoke in any detail of the war. Usually he stopped talking after telling her she didn’t need to concern herself with such things. That, combined with the fact that he allowed her to listen while he discussed important matters with the king, left her feeling quite grown up indeed.

“But his grace is worried they will come for the throne someday?” she asked.

“Aye,” her father murmured. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “But you do not need to worry, as I said. Their house is no longer even a shadow of what it once was. Come now, let's go back to camp and see if your sister is awake...”


	5. Rhaenna

Viserys came to her room the eve before the wedding with a garment of black and silver silks draped over his arm. When she rose from where she had been lounging on the bed, Viserys held the garment up, revealing it to be an elegant and airy dress in the style favored by the noble ladies of Pentos. A wide strip of fabric belted it around the middle, held in place by a silver and ruby pin in the shape of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

“You will wear this tomorrow,” Viserys said. “I want you by my side for the wedding, but I won’t have you as Joanna Waters. Ser Jorah finding your sword was a good thing. It’s high time you face the world as a Targaryen.”

Rhaenna frowned. “You said we would wait until we were away from Pentos, when it would be safer. And I wish you had not told Ser Jorah, we know nothing of him or his allegiances.”

“Starting tomorrow we will be a part of Drogo’s _khalasar_ ,” Viserys said. “The Usurper will not be able to touch you. He will not be able to touch any of us. And we know that Ser Jorah is an exile, hated by Robert Baratheon nearly as much as we are. Besides there was no point in lying, he’s no fool. Who else would have an ancestral Targaryen sword but a Targaryen?”

Even if that had not been historically untrue, Rhaenna was still in such disbelief over Viserys’ unquestioning trust of the strange knight that she could do little more than stare at her uncle, lips pursed.

“I planned to reveal your existence soon anyway,” Viserys continued. He crossed to the chair beneath the windows, carefully draping the dress over the back. “It’s important we let them know we are not afraid of them. To put fear into their hearts when they realize there are three of us, that my brother’s heir survived.” He turned around and looked at her, like he expected some response. The candles burning in the candelabra near him reflected in his lilac eyes, making them shine.

Rhaenna clasped her hands before her. “Why did you wed Dany to Khal Drogo?” she asked. “Why not give me to him and keep your sister for yourself?”

“You’re closer to me in age,” Viserys said. “And you cannot tell me you would have submitted to being wed to some savage horselord.”

Rhaenna tried not to smile. “You’re always saying Dany’s more of a Targaryen than I am.”

“That is true,” Viserys said. “But as much as I despise your mother’s family, your Lannister blood will make a great many things easier. Your grandfather, Lord Tywin, is the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms, and I intend to make sure you are the only one left with any claim to his wealth.”

“You’re going to kill them,” Rhaenna said.

“I’m going to kill him, I’m going to lay the house to ruin,” Viserys said with a cold smile. He walked over to her, reaching out to take her jaw in his hand. “ _Rhaenna_.” He said her name slowly, enunciating it as it would be said in Old High Valyrian, rolling the R, giving weight to the double N, savoring it like some delicacy on his tongue. “The lions cast you aside, remember that. You are a _dragon,_ but you have a woman’s heart, I know. So listen to me, sweet girl: they are not your family. Your uncle Jaime has no love for you in his heart, believe me. He was consumed with jealousy when your mother wed your father, even though he had a wife himself. He’s more of a monster than any of them.”

She swatted his hand away and stepped back. “I never said I thought otherwise”

There was a knock on the open door. Rhaenna turned and saw three of the house slaves standing there. The two younger women carried buckets of steaming water, and the older woman in front had a sealed jar in her arms.

Viserys motioned them into the room. “They’re here to see to your hair,” he said. “There’s a rinse that will remove the last of the dye. It smells of horse piss, but we’ll be spending the next year or so among the Dothraki so I imagine it’s a smell you ought to get used to.”

He was not wrong about the rinse. It smelled foul and made her eyes water and her scalp sting, but when the old crone was done working it through her long hair, the last of the muddy brown dye was gone for the first time since she was very, very small. When Rhaenna stepped in front of the mirror that hung on the door of her wardrobe she froze for a moment, taking in the sight of herself.

Viserys came up behind her. "That's much better, isn’t it?” he murmured, reaching up and letting a still damp strand of her now silver-blonde hair trail through his fingers. “Now you look like Rhaegar Targaryen’s daughter.”

***

The ceremony started at dawn and lasted until early afternoon. It was conducted in the fields outside the city walls, beneath a cloudless sky, and was like nothing Rhaenna had ever seen before. Though Viserys spent half the time muttering under his breath about savages, she watched the strange customs with quiet fascination. Khal Drogo’s entire _khalasar_ was in attendance, thousands upon thousands of people, and the size of that crowd alone was enough to take Rhaenna’s breath away.

After the wedding itself came the celebration, which began with lunch and continued on even as the sun began to creep towards the sea, painting the sky with rich reds and oranges and pinks. Amidst the sea of people huge bonfires sprang to life, sending up jets of sparks to meet the colors above. The air was heavy with the smells of spices and roast meats and the favored oils and perfumes of the Dothraki, and there was much talk and laughter and singing.

A high earthen ramp had been built in the center of it all. Khal Drogo and Dany sat at the top, against the vibrant backdrop of the sunset. The _khal’s_ three bloodriders sat close to him, and next to the four huge men Dany looked like a tiny child. Rhaenna and Viserys sat just below them, and whenever Rhaenna glanced up at her aunt it was all she could do not to leave her seat and run to her.

Despite the fact that he turned up his nose in disgust at most of the Dothraki food, Viserys seemed also to sulk more and more at each dish that was brought first to the new couple, and only brought to them after Dany had sent it down. This did not go unnoticed by the _khal_ and his bloodriders, Rhaenna saw, since the four kept glancing in Viserys’ direction with amusement evident in their dark eyes.

This became even more apparent when one of the bloodriders – Haggo, she thought she had heard Illyrio call him – sent down a cup of _lamekh_ , a pungent alcoholic beverage made from fermented mare’s milk. Viserys’ eyes widened and he looked ready to strike it from the hands of the slave who carried it, but before he could Rhaenna reached out and took the cup. She held it to her nose for a moment, but the sour smell made her lean back a little.

“Best to just drink it and not think about the smell,” Ser Jorah offered, amusement in his voice. He and Illyrio were seated with her and Viserys on the ramp.

Rhaenna was aware of Viserys glaring at her, so she tipped her head back and drank down a mouthful of the _lamekh_. It burned her throat and made her wrinkle her nose, but she swallowed it, turning to smile at Viserys. He snatched the cup from her hand and thrust it back at the nearest slave, then glared at Jorah, who was smiling.

As people became less interested in the food and more interested in drink and revelries, an open space cleared near the base of the earthen ramp, and a group of musicians were playing: drummers and flutists, and one man held on his knee an instrument that looked a bit like a skinny, three stringed guitar that he played with a thin bow. The melody was energetic and as soon as they started women began to dance to it, encouraged by shouts and cheers from those gathered around.

Rhaenna watched them, delighted. There was one young woman who had to be close to her own age dancing nearest to the base of the ramp, and when she looked up and met Rhaenna’s gaze she gave Rhaenna an enticing smile that made Rhaenna laugh, a bit breathlessly. Firelight glinted off the bronze belt around the woman’s waist and the bracelets at her wrists. Like the others, she wore nothing on her torso but a painted leather vest, and Rhaenna felt her pulse quicken a little when she caught a glimpse of the soft curves beneath.

She was really going to have to learn Dothraki.

It was not long after that when Khal Drogo called for the presentation of the bridal gifts. First came those from his bloodriders: a gold-chased _arakh_ from Cohollo, a dragonbone bow from Qotho, and a silver handled whip from Haggo. These were more accurately a gift for Khal Drogo, since tradition expected Dany to give them to her new husband since she was not able to wield them herself. Viserys had already given Dany his gift of three handmaids, so after the bloodriders’ gifts, it was Rhaenna’s turn.

She also presented Dany with a weapon, but this was for her aunt to keep. It was a small, thin knife with a hilt of dragonbone inlaid with fine silver filigree, beautiful and delicate and feminine. But Rhaenna knew the blade was sharp, and as she handed the box it lay in to Dany she leaned over and whispered, “I’ll teach you to use it properly.”

“Thank you,” Dany said, for both the gift and the promise, looking up at Rhaenna with a dazed but genuine smile. When Rhaenna moved to step away so Illyrio could approach with his gift, however, Dany reached up and grabbed her wrist, her expression turning pleading. “Stay with me?”

Uncertain, Rhaenna glanced at Drogo, who was watching them with a pensive expression. Even if he had heard what Dany said he wouldn’t have understood, the _khal_ did not know much of the common tongue. Rhaenna turned to Illyrio then. “Will the _khal_ be offended if I remain by Daenerys’ side?”

Illyrio repeated the question to Drogo, who looked at Rhaenna and motioned for her to sit.

Dany let out an audible breath of relief and scooted to the side so Rhaenna could sit with her on the wooden bench.

Next two of Illyrio’s slaves approached, carrying a large wooden chest between them. They set it before Dany and opened the lid then backed away. Inside the chest, nested among colorful silks and damasks, were three enormous eggs. Beside Rhaenna, Dany gasped, lifting her hands to her mouth for a brief moment. Even in the fading twilight the eggs shone like precious stones, more beautiful than anything Rhaenna had seen.

“Dragon eggs, from the shadowlands beyond Asshai,” Illyrio said, looking pleased with the reaction. “The years have turned them to stone, but they will be forever beautiful.”

Her lips parted in shock and awe, Dany lifted one of the eggs from the box. It was deep black, streaked with bloody crimson, just like the colors of their house. The red caught the light as she turned it back and forth, dazzled, her fears apparently forgotten, even just for this moment. She turned to Rhaenna then, violet eyes alight. At her prompting Rhaenna picked up one of the other eggs, this one cream streaked with gold. It was warm in her hands, and heavier than she expected it to be. Her skin prickled a little as she held it, but not unpleasantly.

“There are no words to thank you for this gift, Magister,” Dany said when they had returned the eggs to their nest of silks. “I shall treasure them always.”

There were other gifts then, more than Rhaenna could count: jewels and silks and clothes and sandals, and three books from Ser Jorah that had stories from Westeros. Dany’s eyes lit up at those as well, and she thanked the grizzled knight profusely.

When it came time for Drogo to present his gift he rose to his feet and motioned for Dany to follow. Rhaenna stood as well, she could see that Dany was anxious once again as they followed the _khal_ down the ramp to the cleared space below. Drogo motioned for them to wait and he disappeared into the crowd.

He was not gone for long. After a moment the gathered people parted, and Drogo appeared once more leading the most beautiful horse Rhaenna had ever seen. She was a stunning little filly, as silver as Dany’s hair, graceful and elegant like wind and moonlight made flesh. Dany was once again speechless, but she smiled as she left Rhaenna’s side to meet her new husband and his gift. She even kept smiling when Drogo lifted her effortlessly into the saddle.

Rhaenna was aware of someone moving to stand beside her, and glanced over to see Ser Jorah there, his arms folded, expression thoughtful. Glancing back at Dany, Rhaenna murmured, “She looks like a queen.”

“Yes,” Ser Jorah agreed. He was watching Dany as well, following her with his eyes as she made a swift circuit of the camp on the back of her new mount. “But I would not advise letting your uncle hear you say that, my lady.”

Rhaenna let out an amused breath. Viserys stood some yards away with Illyrio, determinedly not looking at his sister. She couldn’t care less what he thought. Not only did Dany look like a queen, she also looked truly happy.

The unbridled joy did not last for long, however. By the time Dany returned to where she had begun, Drogo had mounted his own horse, and a path had cleared for them, leading away from the camp and in the direction of the coast.

“They will ride to spend their first night together beneath the stars,” Jorah said when he caught the worried and confused frown on Rhaenna’s face. “We will not see them until morning. But do not worry, she will be safe with the _khal_.”

 _But will she be safe_ from _him_? Rhaenna wondered. She still knew nothing of Khal Drogo’s demeanor, whether he would be a kind husband or the sort who saw his wife as property to be used at his pleasure. Viserys had certainly implied the latter would be the case, but even after just one day amongst them, Rhaenna had already decided that any opinions he had about the Dothraki weren’t worth listening to.

As the new couple rode off, disappearing into the thickening darkness, the crowd began to return to their previous revels. Rhaenna took a cup of what turned out to be sweet golden wine from a passing server, taking a long drink of it before turning to Ser Jorah. “When did you leave Westeros? If you do not mind my asking.”

“Seven years ago,” Jorah said.

“Seven years,” Rhaenna repeated, gazing at him. “You’re a knight...did you fight in the Rebellion?”

Ser Jorah’s expression shifted into a slightly bemused smile. “I did, my lady.”

“On which side?”

“The Mormonts are sworn to House Stark, my lady,” he said, his smile growing a little. “Which side do you think? But the rebellion ended seventeen years ago. A great deal has changed since then.”

She gazed at him, studying his face, searching for any sign of dishonesty or deceit. She supposed that having someone want to take your head off _would_ be enough to make you change your loyalties, but she still didn’t fully trust him.

“You look a great deal like your mother,” Jorah said, when the silence stretched out just a little too long. “The first time I saw her was the day King’s Landing fell to Robert Baratheon’s forces. She was the age you are now, actually, sixteen or seventeen. I was with a few others in the yard of the Red Keep when she came out with Ser Jaime and Lord Tywin and Prince Oberyn Martell.”

Rhaenna’s throat felt suddenly thick, and she found couldn’t say anything, so she took another drink instead, draining her cup.

"You have her eyes,” Jorah said, though his tone seemed to indicate he wished he could have said something more meaningful.

***

Even after Dany and Khal Drogo had departed the celebration showed no sign of even being close to an end. Rhaenna intentionally lost herself in the crowd, not wanting to deal with Viserys or Illyrio or Ser Jorah any longer. She kept drinking as she wandered, and soon the jetting sparks of the bonfires seemed to be swimming and dancing everywhere she looked.

A slender, calloused hand closed around her wrist, tugging her around, and Rhaenna found herself face to face with the Dothraki woman who had smiled at her earlier. She said something to Rhaenna that seemed to be a question, and when Rhaenna just gave her an apologetically blank look and shook her head, the woman laughed, not unkindly, then let go of Rhaenna’s wrist so she could cup her face in her hands and kiss her.

The woman’s mouth tasted like wine, her lips were soft and warm and Rhaenna could feel her smiling into the kiss. When they parted, the woman smiled even wider. She pointed at her own chest and said, “Shiqi.”

“Shiqi,” Rhaenna repeated. She pointed to herself. “Rhaenna.”

“Rhaenna,” Shiqi said. She took Rhaenna’s hand, tugging on it gently. “ _Jadas_.”

She took Shiqi’s meaning well enough, and let herself be led through the crowd. Rhaenna expected Shiqi to take her back to a tent, but the other woman instead simply led her to one of the scattered, thick-trunked trees that grew in the fields, around the base of which blankets and cushions had been spread. Rhaenna had no sooner lowered herself down to one of the woven blankets than Shiqi was in her lap, arms twining around her neck as they continued to kiss. Rhaenna shifted, letting Shiqi slip one leg between hers, gasping a little, sliding her hands up beneath Shiqi’s vest to cup her soft breasts. Shiqi sighed, arching her back and pushing into Rhaenna’s touch, rocking against her thigh.

Without warning, Shiqi’s sighs of pleasure turned into a yelp of startled pain as someone yanked her off of Rhaenna. Before she even realized what was happening Rhaenna was on her feet, tugging her dress back up over her shoulder and whirling to glare at...Viserys. Of course it was Viserys standing with his fist in Shiqi’s hair and a furious expression on his reddened face.

“Let go of her,” Rhaenna said.

Viserys did, but only so he could point a trembling finger at her. “You _dare_ embarrass me like this?!”

“Embarrass you?!” Rhaenna curled her lip, but she was aware that while no one had paid her and Shiqi any mind, all the eyes of the nearby Dothraki were on them now. Shiqi had gotten to her feet, a wide-eyed scowl on her face. She spat something at Viserys as she tightened her belt and brushed dirt from her leggings.

Viserys, thankfully, ignored her. “Yes, embarrass me! I brought you to be by my side, to represent our house, and I find you rutting with one of these savages in the dirt like a bitch in hea—”

Rhaenna slapped him. It was not even a particularly hard blow, but Viserys was so stunned by it that he took a step back from her, lifting his hand to his cheek. Then his fury started to return, showing itself in the red flush across his cheeks and the way he bared his teeth, his eyes hard. For a split second Rhaenna considered simply fleeing.

But Viserys _had_ wanted her to be a dragon, so she did not move, even when Viserys lunged at her, grabbing the shoulder of her dress and nearly tearing it as he tried to yank her down and she forcefully resisted.

Ser Jorah pushed his way through the crowd then, and for a moment Rhaenna thought he was going to grab ahold of Viserys, but he simply held his hands up and said, “ _Your grace_.”

“What?!” Viserys snarled.

Jorah turned and looked pointedly to Rhaenna’s left. When Rhaenna turned she saw Shiqi was still standing there, now wearing a coldly smug expression and holding an _arakh_ in her hand, the wicked, curved blade glinting in the firelight.

Viserys met Rhaenna’s gaze again. She smiled, and he let go of her dress, taking a step back, his thin chest heaving. Jorah stepped closer to him and muttered something in his ear, but Viserys pushed the knight back. He swayed a little, his eyes darting around to the faces still watching him.

Rhaenna stepped towards him. “Perhaps we should both retire to the manse for the evening.”

“Yes perhaps we should,” he said, scowling at her.

When he took her arm, turning her towards the path back to the city, Rhaenna looked over her shoulder at Shiqi, giving her an apologetic grimace. Shiqi smiled, however, and winked, which made Rhaenna feel just a little better as she let Viserys tug her back towards Pentos, Ser Jorah following them.

“You were right earlier,” Rhaenna murmured to Viserys. “When you told me why you didn’t wed me to Khal Drogo.”

He refused to look at her. “What was I right about?”

“I don’t submit. You’d best remember that, Uncle.”


	6. Catelyn

"Mother?"

Catelyn dragged her gaze from the son who lay broken in the bed before her to the son who stood in the doorway, looking every inch the lord with one of his father's fur cloaks clasped about his shoulders. The sun had set hours ago, and a cold wind rattled the darkened windows of Bran's little tower room. Outside, a wolf began to howl, joined quickly by a second and a third. Wearing a solemn expression he had also gotten from Ned, Robb crossed the room and pushed one half of the window open a crack.

“Don’t!” Catelyn said, as a gust of cold air made the candles on the bedside table gutter. “Bran needs to stay warm.”

“Bran needs to hear the wolves sing,” Robb said, turning to look at her. He nodded to his brother, and though Catelyn did not quite want to believe it, there did seem to be a flush of color in Bran’s cheeks that had not been there a moment before. Robb moved closer, stepping around to stand at the end of the bed. “Lord Tyrion’s party has just arrived from Castle Black. They meant to arrive before nightfall but had encountered trouble on the road.”

Catelyn frowned. “What sort of trouble?”

“Nothing you need worry about, Mother,” Robb said. “They’ll be staying a few days to replenish supplies before continuing on to White Harbor. Also Lord Tyrion asked if he might come offer his sympathies to you in person.”

“Sympathies...” Catelyn murmured. Each word she spoke felt like tar on her tongue, and this one seemed even to taste foul. Her eyes felt raw from exhaustion and the desire to weep, though she had no tears left in her. She swallowed, thickly. “Bran’s not dead.”

“No,” said a voice from behind Robb, making both of them turn. “But it’s a difficult time for you all the same.”

Tyrion Lannister stood in the open door. He wore a crimson doublet with the roaring lion of his house picked out in thread-of-gold on the breast. His hair was mussed, his cheeks still pink from the cold. Catelyn studied him, though she tried not to stare. The last time she had seen the youngest son of Lord Tywin had been at Lysa and Robert’s wedding, and Tyrion had still been a boy. She did not think he had gotten any taller in those seventeen years.

“Forgive me,” Tyrion said. “I should have waited, I know. I will not trouble you long, I merely wished to offer my service, Lady Catelyn, if there is anything I might do.”

“You are very kind, Lord Tyrion,” Catelyn said. Even to her ears it sounded as though she were reading the line aloud from a page, flat, practiced, emotionless. Robb was looking at her expectantly, silently asking whether she wanted him to intervene.

Before she could decide one way or another, however, one of the house guards appeared in the door behind Tyrion.

“Beg pardon, my lord,” he said, looking to Robb and Robb alone. “Ser Rodrik said to send for you, something’s...” Now his eyes darted first to Catelyn, then to Tyrion, who barely came up to his elbow, before looking back to Robb, “There’s something that needs your attention.”

_Something he doesn’t want me to hear_ , Catelyn thought. She knew the whole keep was walking on eggshells around her, ever since the accident. It was equal parts a relief and immense frustration. Still, she looked to her son and nodded, “Go, I’ll be fine. Just leave the door open.”

Robb nodded and strode from the room with the guard, stepping around Lord Tyrion.

After they had disappeared, and when Catelyn did nothing to stop him, Tyrion walked over to stand at the end of the bed, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down at Bran. Catelyn tried to read his expression, but even if she were not so sleep-deprived she did not think she would be able to.

“Well?” she said after he did not speak for several moments. “Aren’t you going to say how sorry you are and what a great tragedy this is?” Her voice felt rough and sounded rougher in her anticipated annoyance at whatever this stranger who knew nothing of their family had to say.

Lord Tyrion looked up at her. He had mismatched eyes—one was green, the other black, and the sharp contrast gave his stare an unnerving intensity. But when he spoke, his tone was surprisingly gentle. “No,” he said. “I imagine you’ve heard all of those empty platitudes once too often and have grown quite sick of them. I did not come here to cause you more discomfort, Lady Stark, I merely wished to...” But he trailed off, his brow furrowing.

“Do you have much experience with tragedy, my lord?” Catelyn asked.

“More than you might think. I was still living at Casterly Rock when my brother’s first wife Elia Martell was murdered by one of my father’s own bannermen,” Tyrion said, and Catelyn felt a slight flare of guilt at his words, though he did not seem angry with her. “I was only ten years old at the time, still very much a child, but I loved her like a true sister. It is not the same, I know."

Catelyn felt a thick lump of frustration building in her throat and managed only a strained whisper of, "I'm sorry."

"No, I shouldn't be speaking of that," Tyrion said. "Forgive me.”

They were both quiet then. What Catelyn wanted was to tell him to leave, to leave her to be with her grief. Tyrion was a stranger, and he was a Lannister, and for all that she did not trust him. And yet the words that came when she found her voice a moment later were, “My sister did not come up to see him, or me, before they departed.”

“Sorry?” Tyrion looked at her, a puzzled frown on his face. “Her grace did not...”

“No.” Catelyn didn’t know why she was telling him this. Perhaps it was her continued hurt and bewilderment over Lysa’s action, or lack of action, rather. How was it that a man she did not know came to offer his sympathies when Lysa, whose own nephew was lying here perhaps on the brink of death, had not? It was so deeply unlike Lysa as well to leave without bidding Catelyn farewell in person, the whole thing left a distressingly uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach.

At the same time, she was so hurt that she hadn’t been able to say a thing about it to Robb, or Maester Aemon, or any of them for fear of...what? She wasn’t sure.

More sounds were drifting in through the open window now, some kind of commotion down in the yard: men were shouting, dogs were barking, things were being moved and banged and somewhere a bell was being rung. In the back of her mind Catelyn knew this had to mean something was wrong, and certainly Tyrion was looking to the window in alarm, but as she rose to her feet and circled around the bed all she could think of was how _loud_ it was.

Reaching the window she pulled it shut, then froze; across the keep she could see flames belching forth from the narrow windows of the library tower. She watched numbly, thinking only _Thank the Gods it won’t reach us, I don’t need to worry about moving Bran..._

Behind her there was a sudden crash and Lord Tyrion let out a shout of either anger or pain. Catelyn whirled around.

“No one was s’pposed to be here,” said the filthy looking man standing over Bran’s bed.

Lord Tyrion lay slumped and dazed against the wall where the man had thrown him, no doubt without much effort.

Catelyn’s mind went blank. She saw the man, she saw the knife he held, the light of the fire and candles glinting off the dark steel of the blade, she saw the way his eyes darted towards Bran, still and helpless in the bed. There was no time to think. Catelyn threw herself at the man, blindly grappling with him, one hand twisting in his tattered robes, her left hand closing around the blade. White hot pain shot through her arm as the knife cut into her palm but she didn’t let go, gasping as she struggled to keep him back.

Lord Tyrion had regained his senses by then and somewhere in the background of her panic Catelyn heard him shouting for guards, for help, for anyone.

Except his shout was cut short, and before Catelyn could even register it, something slammed into both her and the man, knocking them to the floor. Only when she hit the hard stones and felt the knife further cut her hand as it was pushed from her grasp did Catelyn scream, more in rage than in pain, but the attacker was being dragged off of her, thrashing and making the most horrible sounds.

“ _Gods be fucked!”_ Tyrion shouted, his voice suddenly right above Catelyn.

Her hand was on fire, each breath told her that she had at the very least bruised her ribs, her head swam, but Catelyn pushed herself up desperately, looking to where the man had fallen. Over him stood the wolf who had just torn out his throat, bloody teeth still bared as it lifted its head and looked at her and Lord Tyrion with intense yellow eyes.

Bran’s wolf. Of course it was Bran’s wolf.

The creature sniffed at the air and relaxed, ears pricking up, hackles lowering. It stepped away from the body and towards Catelyn, but when Lord Tyrion jumped back in alarm the beast cocked its head and paused, then turned to jump up onto the bed and lie down on Bran’s legs.

The door banged open and Robb burst in followed by Rodrik Cassell, Maester Lewin and Theon Greyjoy. There was a great deal of commotion then, shouting and harsh words that Catelyn couldn’t be bothered to comprehend. She grabbed at the footboard of Bran’s bed with her good hand and tried to pull herself up, and someone rushed forward, holding her under the arms to steady her and help her to her feet.

“ _Mother_ ,” Robb said, voice as firm as his hold on her. “Mother you’re badly hurt, please, let Maester Aemon...”

His voice faded away, replaced by a quiet ringing in her ears. She just needed to see that Bran was—yes, there he was, still asleep, with his wolf still protectively lying across his broken legs. The creature lifted its head as though sensing Catelyn’s gaze, and she let out a slow breath then whispered, “ _Thank you_.”

* * *

All of the grief and exhaustion and shock finally caught up with her after that, and once her wounds had been seen to, Catelyn had been brought to her own bed where she slept for a day and a half.

When she woke, however, Catelyn found her mind clearer than it had been since Bran’s fall. She sent for a maid to help her bathe and dress, and then she went in search of her eldest son. She found Robb seated behind the great oak desk in the study, Theon sitting across from him and Ser Rodrik by his side. They all looked up in surprise when she entered the stuffy, dimly lit room, Robb and Theon rising to their feet.

“Mother, should you be out of bed?” Robb asked, looking startled.

“I’m fine,” Catelyn said, gesturing away Theon’s offer of a seat. She cradled her bandaged and still aching left hand in her right one as she gazed at her son. “I want to know what happened. I want to know who that man was.”

It was Ser Rodrik who answered, absently tugging at his whiskers as he did. “He was no man of Winterfell, my lady. He had clearly been hiding in the stables for quite some time, though it’s impossible to say when he slipped in. Could be he was with the king’s party, there’ve been so many people coming and going lately...”

“Lord Tyrion...” Catelyn began, but Robb shook his head.

“All of his men are accounted for,” he said. “We confirmed by a raven to Castle Black, he only had the four Lannister house guards with him when he left there.”

Theon scoffed. “I’m still not sure I would trust him.”

“I didn’t say I trusted him,” Robb said, diplomatically. “I just said it wasn’t one of the men he brought with him.” He reached down and lifted a knife from the table, holding it out for Catelyn to see. “This was the blade the assassin used.”

“That’s Valyrian steel,” Catelyn murmured. She had no deep knowledge of weapons, but Ned’s own blade was Valyrian steel and the metal was hard to mistake for anything else with its dark color and the tell-tale swirls from where the metal had been folded over and over in whatever strange process was involved in its forging.

Ser Rodrik nodded. “And a dragonbone hilt. This is a rare and valuable weapon, certainly not the sort a man like that would’ve owned. On my life, I’m sure he was someone’s catspaw, and it would be them that outfitted him with this blade.”

“But who would want to kill a crippled little boy?” Theon said, either ignoring or not noticing the way Catelyn flinched at the word.

“Perhaps it wasn’t Bran he was after,” Robb said, distantly.

“He was there for Bran,” Catelyn said. She shuddered, pulling the shawl she had on tighter about her shoulders, though there had been no sudden chill.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor drew their attention to the door. Lord Tyrion strode in, he was accompanied by one of the Stark house guards, though the latter remained in the hall.

“My lord,” Robb said, nodding to Tyrion. “Thank you for coming.”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows, glancing back over his shoulder at the large man who had escorted him. He gave Robb a slightly dry smile as he joined them at the desk. “My pleasure, I’m...” He trailed off, a bemused look settling on his face as he stared at the knife Robb held. “Well now that _is_ odd.”

“You recognize this blade?” Robb asked, tensing, and in an instant all eyes were on Tyrion.

“I am certain that I will regret saying this,” Tyrion said with a heavy sigh. “But I hope that you will take my forthrightness as proof of innocence – that dagger is mine.”

Silence met that declaration. Catelyn stared at him. He was right, of course, even with how little she knew him, and how much Lysa distrusted his family, it was hard to believe that someone as famously clever as Tyrion Lannister would be so stupid as to admit to owning a blade used to try and kill her son if he were in fact behind the plot.

“Of course, if it was your fault,” Theon Greyjoy said slowly, “You might admit to owning the blade because you’d hope your forthrightness would make us not suspect you.”

Tyrion turned to him, slowly, a bemused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “There’s a saying that maesters are quite fond of, I’m sure yours has said it often: the simplest explanation tends to be the correct one. Why would I go to all that trouble when, if I wanted to hire someone to kill Bran Stark, I could have just armed my man with a blade that had no connection to me?”

“You expect us to guess how your mind works, Lannister?”

Robb held out his hand to his foster brother. “Theon.”

“I was barely aware that your mother even had three sons until I met Jon Snow at Castle Black and he told me about his brothers,” Tyrion said, and there was a tense edge to his voice now. “I certainly didn’t know his name or what he looked like let alone have any reason whatsoever to wish him harm!”

“Lord Tyrion, I do not think this was your doing,” Robb said. “I assume you brought this knife north with you?"

Tyrion shook his head. "I did not, as it happens. I do not bring that blade anywhere. Does that look like the sort of weapon I would carry? It was a namday gift from my brother, for the historic merit of such a piece rather than practical intent. Last I saw, it was where it always is—on the mantel in my room at the Red Keep."

"So you're saying someone stole it from your rooms and brought it north to try and use against my brother?" Robb said.

"Your guess is as good as mine, I'm afraid," Tyrion said, holding his hands out in a hapless gesture.

Robb chewed his lower lip, jutting out his jaw in frustration. "Something still doesn’t feel right about any of this, and since you were a witness to the attack, Lord Tyrion, you will have to forgive me if I ask you to remain at Winterfell a while longer. Again, as a witness, not a suspect.”

Tyrion inhaled heavily through his nose, then sighed. “Certainly, my lord. I should be delighted. I don’t suppose I could have that back…? Oh, come now, that was a joke."

Robb, however, was clearly in no mood for jokes. He scowled as he resheathed the blade, handing it to Ser Rodrik. “I believe we’re done here for now. Thank you.”

They all filed out of the study, Robb and Theon going off in one direction, Ser Rodrik in another. Catelyn walked down the hall some ways then stopped where it intersected with another hall. She should eat something, she knew, after being asleep for so long, but her stomach was still in knots.

“Lady Stark.” Lord Tyrion had followed her and lightly touched her arm as he came up beside her. “Forgive me, I wished to ask you—they said Bran fell from a ruined part of the keep?”

Catelyn frowned, nodding. “Yes. The broken tower, over the lichyard. I’m sure you noticed it when you arrived.”

“It was quite dark when I first arrived,” Tyrion said. He hesitated just a moment then asked, “Would you show me?”

“Show you?” Catelyn frowned at him. “Why?”

“Because I have a theory and I would like very much to see if it has any merit,” Tyrion said. When she continued to frown at him he let out a long sigh. “Lady Stark, think for a moment. Why would anyone want to kill a boy as innocent as your son? You’ve all been asking that question since the night of the attack, but _think_ , the answer is quite obvious.”

Catelyn’s lips parted, and her breath came out in a sharp little puff. “What are you talking about?"

“I'm sure you know my brother Jaime is known for being a bit hot-headed,” Tyrion said. “Impetuous, easy to rile. And yet in all our lives he has only threatened me, _really_ threatened me with bodily harm once, when I was four years old and walked in on him and Cersei...well, it doesn’t matter, the details, you get the point. A fall followed so soon by an attempted killing…?”

"You think Bran saw something in that tower. Something someone didn't want him to see."

She hated that Tyrion had a point. She hated that it made sense. She hated that not long after that the two of them were striding across the yard, heading for the broken tower and the place where Bran had been found.

“Who found him?” Tyrion asked as they approached the base of the tower.

“My sister,” Catelyn said. “And Petyr Baelish.”

Tyrion nodded. He paused and looked up, shielding his eyes with one hand, more from the wind than the sun since the sky was almost completely overcast. “They did not see anyone?”

“Lysa was beside herself,” Catelyn said quietly, feeling her jaw tense. “I doubt she saw much of anything.”

“Hm.” Tyrion continued to squint upwards. “May we go inside? _Can_ we go inside?”

“We can,” she said, haltingly. “Though I would take care, the mortar is turning to dust and the building has not been tended since lightning struck it a century ago. Tread lightly on the stairs.”

"Luckily I do not weigh much," Tyrion said, already heading for the wooden door a few yards away.

The wood of the door was rotting, and the hinges creaked as he pushed it open. Inside the tower smelled of mold and rot and earth. The stone steps spiraling upwards were crumbling nearly as much as the top of the tower, and they were steep. Lord Tyrion seemed to be having some difficulty climbing them, but he said nothing as he led the way up, heading for the room beneath the broken roof. Catelyn followed, her brow furrowed, her right hand on the wall for support.

Tyrion stopped just inside the door of the little room, and he held up a hand for Catelyn to wait. The floor was blanketed with the detritus of neglect: dead leaves, dust, rushes so old they were turning to soil. Tyrion took it all in with a slow, ponderous expression, looking from the floor to the single arched window across from them.

Then he crouched, examining something on the floor. After a moment he took a few waddling steps forward, looking like a scrunched-up crab. Catelyn watched him with a raised eyebrow as he made his way further into the room, occasionally reaching out to brush leaves away with his hand.

“All right, what is it?” she asked finally.

Tyrion straightened, grimacing a little and pressing one hand to his lower back. He walked over to the window, standing on tiptoe to look over the wide sill. Then he pointed downward. “That is where Bran was found, isn’t it?”

Catelyn crossed the room to join him. She leaned forward as well, looking down at the hard ground below.

Her head swam. She felt an unpleasant wave of dizziness that turned into a painful tension in her legs, and she accidentally clutched at the windowsill with her injured hand. The shock of that snapped her out of the horrible reverie, however, and she stepped back. “Yes,” she said, her mouth dry, trying hard not to think about what Bran must have felt as he fell. “That is where they found him.”

“And you said he was always sure footed in the past?” Tyrion said, turning to look at her.

“Always.” She didn’t know that she wanted to hear what he was about to say, even though she herself could see the evidence beneath the fresh layer of fallen leaves: sets of footprints, indication that at least two people had been here, recently. She didn’t want to hear Tyrion say it, so she did, her voice a whisper as dry as the leaves beneath her feet. “It was no accident.”

“It was no accident,” Tyrion murmured. “And the perpetrator was someone from King’s Landing.”

For no reason she could explain, Catelyn began to laugh a humorless, slightly hysterical laugh. Shaking her head she pressed her right hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut until the fit of hysteria had passed. Finally, with a sharp inhale, she opened her eyes and said, “Well, Lord Tyrion. I hope you will not mind some company on your return journey.”

* * *

Catelyn had sent word to Lord Manderly at White Harbor, requesting a ship and as much discretion as could be had for Starks and Lannisters traveling together. Even so she was skeptical, and was therefore surprised when, upon their arrival at the bustling port, she, Ser Rodrik, Lord Tyrion and the four Lannister guards were greeted by a lesser Manderly brother, who brought them immediately down to the port. Here he passed them to a Tyroshi captain named Moreo Tumitis, whose _Storm Dancer_ was moored nearby.

“We’re set to sail soon as the last of our goods are loaded,” Moreo said as he led Catelyn and Tyrion up to the deck. He cast her a long look. “I cannot say it has been easy sailing in the Narrow Sea these past few months, and especially not in the north.”

“How so?” Catelyn asked, frowning a little. “The last I spoke with Lord Manderly he said White Harbor has been untroubled.”

Moreo twisted his mouth in an expression of distaste, stroking his forked green beard with one hand. “The weather up this way has not been kind with autumn approaching, and there’ve been krakens in the Shivering Sea of late.”

“The kind with tentacles and gills or the kind with legs and longships?” Tyrion asked.

“Legs and longships, my lord,” Moreo said, now with a bitter grin. He had a gold tooth, but in the dull overcast afternoon it looked more like bronze. “They’ve been troubling the shores near Braavos and even raiding Westerosi ships that stray too far from the coast.”

Catelyn’s alarm was almost entirely tempered by her confusion now. “Ironborn?”

“Not those from the Iron Islands,” Moreo said. “Not Lord Balon. It’s his brother—the Crow’s Eye.”

“Euron Greyjoy.” Catelyn continued to frown. “Why has he come so far west? I thought little has been seen of him since his exile.”

Tyrion snorted. “I've never met him myself, thank the gods, but I do know what my father’s said: there’s neither man nor god who can give reason to the Crow’s Eyes actions, that’s what makes him so dangerous.”

“Ah do not look so worried,” Moreo said, though even his confidence did little to reassure Catelyn. “ _Storm Dancer_ is the swiftest ship I have ever captained. We will get you to King’s Landing unmolested.” He bowed to them, then went to supervising the loading of the last of the cargo.

Tyrion grimaced as he looked up at Catelyn. “You may wish to say a prayer to your husband’s gods as well as your own tonight, my lady.”

Catelyn turned to look back over the stern of the ship, out to the sea beyond, as dark grey as Valyrian steel. The wind picked up and she hugged her cloak tighter about her.

_I will gladly pray to whoever is listening,_ she thought, _for this journey and much else besides._


	7. Eddard

King’s Landing was a city of ghosts. Even in the bright afternoon sunlight, Ned felt something heavy and dark settle deep in his chest the moment his section of the column passed beneath the Dragon Gate and started down the way to the Red Keep. Now, riding through the gates of the keep itself, it was all he could do to quash the frantic urge to turn around and take the girls away, back to Winterfell, back to Cat and the boys. Back home. He did look back, over his shoulder, but this was only to check on the wagon trundling along behind him, carrying Sansa, Arya, Septa Mordane and two large crates containing two large, disgruntled direwolf pups.

Both girls were looking around with wide-eyed curiosity and excitement, Sansa sat perfectly with her hands in her lap, but her head turning this way and that, while Arya couldn’t remain still, moving from one side of the wagon to the other despite Septa Mordane’s hisses to sit down before she tumbled out. Ned smiled. His daughters had spent the morning in a foul mood after a heated argument over breakfast about why Lady and Nymeria had to enter the city in crates, something neither pup had experienced before. But Ned had calmly explained that they had also never been in a city like King’s Landing before, and the last thing any of them needed was for a frightened wolf to slip loose from her lead and hurt someone, or worse. Sansa had tearfully capitulated, and Arya had sworn up and down that she wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the day, but this oath seemed to be well forgotten as she saw him looking at her and grinned hugely.

As they entered the side yard of the keep Ned reined his horse to a stop, letting the wagon rumble up beside him. Arya moved to hang over the edge and ask, “This place is huge! Where will we be living?”

“There, love,” Ned said, pointing behind her and up to one of the towers. “The Tower of the Hand.”

“I’m going to get lost!” Arya said, turning to look. She sounded distinctly excited about the prospect rather than worried.

Ned smiled, but this expression faded after a moment and he let out a heavy sigh. The last time he had been in King’s Landing had been for Robert and Lysa’s wedding, the year following the end of the rebellion. He and Cat had both come, but they had not remained long since they had one-year-old Robb waiting for them back at Winterfell. And Jon too. The wedding had been extravagant and well attended, but for Ned it had never been able to overpower the horrors that had proceeded it. The sacking of the city in particular, he did not think he would be likely to forget that anytime soon.

All around him the yard was a flurry of activity as more of the column continued to trundle through the gates. Servants ran every which way, calling out orders and pushing carts or carrying boxes and bags. Ned’s own steward Vayon Poole had dismounted and was instructing for all of the Starks’ belongings to be taken to the tower, and then loudly telling the kennelmaster to not worry about the wolves, they would be handled later.

Ned dismounted, lightly patting his horse on the neck then passing the reins to a stable boy who had hurried over. Ned was just about to join Poole behind the wagon when someone called out his name.

“Lord Stark!”

Turning, Ned saw another ghost crossing the yard towards him. Renly Baratheon was the spitting image of a much younger Robert, tall and lean and handsome, his face clean shaven, his blue eyes sparkling with humor, his dark hair shining. Dressed a little more extravagantly, perhaps, with a cloth-of-gold half-cape draped over one shoulder, but the resemblance was still unnerving.

“Lord Renly,” Ned said, inclining his head. “I did not expect such a welcome.”

The youngest Baratheon brother grimaced a little. “Oh, if only that were the reason. No, I’m afraid I am on my way to the Small Council, where your presence is also requested.”

“Robert’s called the council already?” Ned asked. The royal family had not been that much further up the column, they wouldn’t have been at the keep for very long. “Why?”

“That is what we must go find out, isn’t it?” Renly said.

Ned didn’t want to find out. He wanted to wash the dust of the road away, to change into something that wasn’t riding leathers, to have a quiet meal with his daughters, to rest. But duty was duty. Heaving a weary sigh, he nodded to Renly, then turned around, gesturing to get Vayon Poole’s attention. “I’m afraid I have work to attend already, please see that the girls get to their rooms and stay there, I don’t want any wandering. I will try to join you all as soon as I can.”

“Of course, my lord,” Poole said, and he gave Ned a reassuring smile.

Turning back to Renly, Ned gestured for him to lead the way inside. The two of them crossed the yard to a double door leading into the castle, and as they entered the dim interior corridor two goldcloaks fell into place a respectful distance behind them.

“How was the journey?” Renly asked as they walked. “I have not actually spoken to my brother yet.”

“Uneventful,” Ned said. “But that’s just as well, none of us needed further upset.”

Renly nodded, glancing at Ned with a sympathetic frown. “Yes, I imagine not. I heard about your little boy, of course, the accident...That’s a terrible thing to have happen. I sincerely hope the next raven from Winterfell brings news of his recovery.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Ned said. “That’s very kind.”

They made their way up to the main level of the Red Keep and came around to enter the council chamber from a side door, rather than by way of the throne room, for which Ned felt vaguely grateful. The council chamber was richly furnished, so much so that it felt nearly claustrophobic. Elegant Myrish carpets covered the stone floor, brightly colored tapestries from the Free Cities hung from every wall, and there was even a pair of Valyrian sphynxes flanking the doors, carved from black marble with glittering garnets for eyes.

Ned paused for a moment, taking in the faces of the people there. Littlefinger stood near the head of the table. At the other end sat wizened old Grand Maester Pycelle. Beside where Littlefinger stood, sat Varys, the master of whispers, and beside him Stannis Baratheon rested his elbows on the table, hands clasped. The fifth figure at the table was Ser Jaime Lannister. He had been all of seventeen the last time Ned saw him, but the Lannister features were unmistakable, that curling blonde hair and those bright green eyes. He was dressed in the black leathers of the Lord Commander of the City Watch, his gold cloak draped over the back of his chair.

“Ser Jaime,” Ned said as he approached the table. “Are you part of the Small Council?”

Lannister smiled. “No, thank the gods. I had business with His Grace, but since he is not taking business at the moment, I’ve brought it to you, Lord Stark.”

Warily, Ned moved to take the king’s chair at the head of the table, with Petyr Baelish to his left and Renly taking the place to his right. Sinking into the chair with a sigh, Ned gestured at Ser Jaime. “Well, what’s this business Robert wouldn’t hear?”

Ser Jaime started to speak, only to be cut off by Lord Stannis. “The business is that the Lord Commander is overstepping his bounds!”

“Overstepping my bounds?” Lannister said, and something in the way he said it made Ned think this was the continuation of an ongoing argument. “It is my duty to protect the people of the city, which is what I am doing. I’m not the one burning men alive!”

“Criminals, ser, and it is not your place to question the king’s justice!” Stannis said, furious now, a vein pulsing in his neck and his brow so deeply furrowed it made Ned’s head hurt to look at it.

Whatever Ned had been expecting the issue to be, however, it hadn’t been this. He glanced around the table. Littlefinger had finally taken his seat and wore an almost amused expression. Varys looked as though he were having stomach troubles. Pycelle was suddenly very interested in the stack of papers in front of him. Only Renly caught Ned’s eye, but it was merely to give a helpless little shrug.

“Lord Stannis,” Ned said, holding a hand out to stop Ser Jaime from speaking. “What is he talking about?”

Stannis turned to look at him. He had grown thinner since the last time Ned had seen him, almost gaunt, and that with his thinning hair made it hard to believe he was younger than Robert. “I was executing criminals, Lord Stark, well within the purview of the King’s Hand.”

“Acting Hand,” Lannister murmured, but Ned ignored him.

“Executing criminals,” Ned repeated. “By burning them?” It sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine, and though he hated to admit it he did agree with Ser Jaime that this was concerning.

Stannis held his gaze. “It is the way the Lord of Light would see it done.”

There were titters around the table at that. Renly coughed and shook his head and Jaime let out a derisive snort, Pycelle shifted in his seat, muttering under his breath. Littlefinger rested his chin in one hand, still looking as though he were watching a particularly entertaining mummer’s show. Ser Jaime must have said something further that Ned did not quite catch, because Stannis turned sharply once more to look at him.

“ _You_ would speak to me of blasphemy?” Stannis said. “You, who took your own sister to wife and have gotten three children on her?”

“Yes, yes, we’re all aware of that,” Ser Jaime said, with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes. “I still think burning men alive is barbarous at the very least.”

Ned rubbed his temple with two fingers, then cleared his throat, loudly. “Ser Jaime, what do you wish me to do, exactly? I agree that it is a horrific method of execution that His Grace would not have approved of had he been in the city, but Lord Stannis was well within his rights as acting Hand to decide how criminals should be punished. But Lord Stannis is no longer acting Hand, so I believe now the point is moot.”

He looked at the two men and knew he had endeared himself to neither.

“I would have thought you, of all people, Lord Stark, would take issue with men being burned alive,” Lannister said, slowly, tilting his head to the side and fixing Ned with the full predatory stare of those cold green eyes.

“If that was all you needed to address, Ser Jaime,” Ned said slowly. “You may go.”

For just a moment he thought Lannister would refuse, then with a tight smile he got to his feet, taking his cloak from the back of the chair and turning to leave the room by way of the door to the throne room.

Once the door closed behind him, Littlefinger cleared his throat and turned to Ned. “Diplomatically handled,” he said, then produced a folded piece of paper with Robert’s own seal holding it closed. “This is a far more pleasant business to discuss, something His Grace wished for you to handle.”

Frowning, Ned took the paper and broke the wax. For a moment he was silent, his frown deepening as he read the note first once, then a second time. He set it down and rubbed both hands over his face. “Seven Hells.”

“Lord Baelish,” Renly said. “I thought you said this was more pleasant business. Our lord Hand seems rather distressed.”

“His Grace wants to hold a tourney in honor of Lord Stark’s appointment,” Littlefinger said with a shrewish smile.

Ned rested one elbow on the table, rubbing his brow with two fingers as he looked over the letter again, as though the figures might have changed. “Forty thousand gold dragons to the champion, twenty thousand each to the runner up and champion of the melee, ten thousand to the victor of the archery competition. Ninety thousand gold pieces?”

“And that will just be for the prizes,” Littlefinger said. “We all know King Robert’s tastes for extravagance. Other costs will at the very least double that figure.”

“Can our treasury afford such an expense?” Ned asked.

Littlefinger chuckled. “And here they said you have no sense of humor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ned asked.

“It means that while I can certainly find the gold for this... mm, joyous celebration, it won’t be coming from the royal treasury. There is no royal treasury. The king’s coffers have been empty for years.”

Why, by the old gods and the new, had he agreed to return here?

“How could you let this happen?!” Ned exclaimed. “The Targaryens left a fortune, where has it all gone?”

“The king spends it, I merely find it for him,” Littlefinger said with a shrug.

Ned scowled at him. “And if the treasury is empty where, exactly, have you been finding it?”

“The Lannisters have been very generous, all things considered,” Littlefinger said. “I believe our debt to Lord Tywin now tallies three million dragons, give or take.”

“ _Three million_?” Ned stared at him. “You’re telling me the crown is three million gold pieces in debt?”

There was that smile again, that knowing, slimy smile that Ned wished he could knock right off Baelish’s face. “I’m telling you the crown is six million in debt. The other half is owed to the Tyrells, the Iron Bank, the Faith, Tyroshi trading cartels...”

Six million gold dragons in debt, and half of that to Tywin Lannister. How clever of him. Lord Tywin was not a generous man, and careful of his wealth. There was no one else alive Ned could imagine him allowing to rack up such an extensive debt—but the Lannisters had lost their grip on the throne the day Rhaegar Targaryen placed that crown of flowers on Lyanna’s head instead of Cersei’s, and no doubt Tywin would take any chance he could to get his claws into the king, one way or another.

“This is not a matter we will settle today,” Ned said, after another long moment of the other councilors staring at him expectantly. “I will speak to His Grace about it. If there are other matters they will have to wait until tomorrow.”

None of the men seemed too put out about cutting the meeting short, indeed Stannis was out the door before Ned had even gotten to his feet. Varys and Littlefinger seemed to have some business to discuss and remained at the table, and Grand Maester Pycelle was likely to take the rest of the afternoon just to get out of his seat, and so Ned left them all to it.

He could have left by the door he had entered, and taken the long way around the outer corridors, but Ned made himself leave through the other door, the one that opened onto a short hall that in turn led to the door just behind the Iron Throne.

Robert had changed the throne room a great deal. Gone were the dragon skulls, in their place elegant tapestries showing scenes of the hunt. Painted vines twined around the great pillars, and all the windows were uncovered, letting light spill into the vast space.

But the one thing he could not change was the throne, that twisted, wicked pile of blades. Ned walked slowly around to stand at the base of it, looking up. The thing was taller in his memory, but not much.

“Having fond recollections of the old days?”

Ned turned. “Ser Jaime,” he said, frowning.

“I forgot some papers in there,” Ser Jaime said, gesturing in the direction of the small council chamber, though he came to stand beside Ned. “It must be strange for you, to be back here. I was away for less than two years after the rebellion and still...”

“Strange is one way of putting it,” Ned said.

Ser Jaime continued to look at him. “How long has it been for you? Sixteen years?”

“Just about, aye,” Ned murmured. He didn’t particularly want to talk about it. Not here. Not with this man. “I have to talk to His Grace later, I’ll mention your concerns about Stannis but I can’t promise anything.”

“I do hope you at least see where my concern comes from.”

Ned was quiet for a moment, turning from the throne to face Ser Jaime. “What is this lord of light he mentioned?” he asked finally in a low voice.

“A god from the east,” said Lannister, the corners of his mouth tightening in distaste. “R’hllor. Some priestess from Asshai came to Dragonstone and convinced Lord Stannis and Lady Selyse to renounce the Seven and start worshipping this fire god instead. I’m sure you’ll meet her sooner or later. The priestess, that is. Melisandre. She’s hard to miss.”

_Gods be good_ , Ned thought, wearily. He rubbed the back of his neck. “And Robert hasn’t said anything about this?”

“I could comment on His Grace’s response, or lack of one,” Lannister said with a wry smile. “But I’m afraid what I would have to say would do nothing but make you dislike me even more.”

“I don’t dislike you,” Ned said, automatically.

Lannister chuckled, taking a step backwards in the direction of the council chambers. “You’re a terrible liar, Lord Stark. You should work on that if you want to survive here more than a few days.”

* * *

Robert was not available, even to Ned, until well after breakfast the following day. That in itself came only after Ned had sent Vayon Poole to the royal quarters twice to see if His Grace had a moment to spare. When he finally was told to see him, he found Robert in his study, standing by the windows with a cup of wine in his hand, gazing out at the Blackwater.

“Gods, first Jaime Lannister now you,” Robert said when Ned entered. “Can’t a man catch a damn few days to himself to recover from a long journey?”

Ned studied him for a moment, trying to gauge his mood. Then he said, “A man, aye, but not a king.”

“Apparently not,” Robert said with a shake of his head as he turned around. “You know there’s days when I wonder why I didn’t just let someone else take the damn throne.” He let out a snort of laughter. “Gods can you imagine Jaime Lannister ruling? Or Oberyn Martell?”

“Oberyn Martell would never want it. And if Ser Jaime had claimed the throne he would not be the one ruling,” Ned said. “It would be his father.”

“Or his sister,” Robert said. “Have you met that bitch yet? Recently, I mean, I know you met her back then. She’s like Lord Tywin with tits. Gods I swear if she wasn’t so pretty...”

Ned raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Robert grumbled. “You think I’d touch Cersei Lannister? What did I say, that day when I finally got here? I’m not putting my cock anywhere that Rhaegar Targaryen’s has been.”

Those had, in fact, been the exact words Robert had said, in response to Jon Arryn’s suggestion that he take Lady Cersei as his wife. Ned personally agreed that it would not have been wise to take his fallen enemy's widow as his queen, no matter how wealthy her family was, but there would have been more tactful ways of doing it.

He could still remember Cersei’s hissed response just as clearly – _Well that rules out Lyanna Stark, doesn’t it?_

Robert’s face had gone red at that and he’d looked near ready to forward and strangle her, if it hadn’t been for the presence of her father and brother and a dozen other Lannister men. And Ser Jaime had still been wearing that blank, cold look he’d had when they found him over King Aery’s body, a look that said he probably wouldn’t hesitate to bring down another king.

It didn’t matter in the end. Later that same day Ned had ridden out to find his sister, only to—

“ _Ned_ ,” Robert said. It was possible he had said it a few times already. “I don’t think you came here to talk about that, so go on, out with it.”

Ned wasn’t sure which topic to begin with, since it was likely Robert would be upset about both. “The tourney,” he said after a moment. “It isn’t a good idea. We can’t afford it.”

“Bugger that, of course we can,” Robert said with a scoff, walking over to refill his cup. “Tywin Lannister will lend us whatever we need and he’ll do it with a damn smile on his face. I’ve let so many things slide with that family he should be kissing my boots.”

It was impossible to tell whether this was bravado, or whether Robert genuinely believed he was the one with the upper hand over the Lannisters. Either way, it did not sit well with Ned. Either way, it meant things were worse than he had imagined.

“And what are you going to do when he wants repayment?” Ned asked. He felt weary again, already. “They don’t just pay their debts they like to collect on them as well. The tourney is an expense we cannot afford and do not need. I would be just as happy taking my position quietly, you know that.”

Robert took a drink then gestured with the cup. “The tourney’s happening, you and Petyr Baelish will make it happen.”

Ned stared at him for a long moment then sighed, nodding. “Yes, your grace. There was another thing as well. Your brother, Stannis. I assume you heard what he’s been doing in your absence?”

“Burning criminals and fucking that red priestess of his,” Robert said, with the carelessness that he might have used to remark on some new horse Stannis had bought. “What of it?”

Ned frowned. “It doesn’t concern you?”

“Not particularly,” Robert said. “Listen, Ned, he’s always pulling shit because he knows no one will look at him twice if he doesn’t. All this Red God nonsense, you think I’m going to be afraid of some cult from across the narrow sea? His Lord of Light is nothing. Was the punishment a little outrageous? Yes. Is Stannis throwing his weight around? Yes. But what the fuck do you think is going to happen if I actually play into these delusions he has? Or, gods forbid, if I let him think I’m actually being intimidated by his bluster?”

He was making a mistake. Ned understood what he said, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that dismissing Lord Stannis’s actions was perhaps the worst thing they could do. Except getting Robert to see that let alone admit it would be about as easy as digging a hole through the Wall with a wooden spoon.

“He’s not the Hand any longer,” Robert said. “If he steps out of line, obviously we’ll see what needs to be done. But for now let it go.”

“Of course, your grace,” Ned said finally, but even he could hear the stiffness in his tone. “Thank you for hearing me anyway.”

Robert gave him an odd look. “Go on. Maybe don’t try to tackle every damn problem in the Seven Kingdoms all at one.”

With a sigh Ned turned and strode from the room, wishing it were that easy.


	8. Genna

Down in the yard the boys were sparring. Early morning light glinted off the blunted steel of their practice blades and shone in Joffrey's golden curls. At fifteen he was the spitting image of Jaime: tall and lean and handsome with those flashing green Lannister eyes. His opponent was his cousin and Genna's youngest, Red (Walder was his actual name, which had then become Red Walder to keep him distinct from the countless other Walders amongst his cousins and uncles, and here at Casterly Rock he was generally just called Red). Red had the misfortune of taking after his own lord father, and next to the fierce golden lion that was Joffrey Lannister, he looked more like a tired little ferret than ever.

Resting her arms on the top of the parapet wall, Genna didn't bother to chide herself. She both loved and resented her boys, loved them because they were her children, resented them because of how they had come to be, and the fact that when she looked at them she could only think of Emmon on the day they were wed.

She had been thirteen years old. And angry. And full of tears she would not give her lord father the benefit of seeing.

Tion, the second youngest, was the only exception, the only boy who did not take after Emmon, and there was good reason for that.

Behind her came the sound of footsteps on stone, then Tywin joined her at the wall, looking down as well, his face set in a pensive half-frown.

"He'll make knighthood soon," Genna said, not needing to clarify which boy she meant. "Young, like Jaime did."

"Perhaps,” said her brother. “It is his discipline that concerns me. Or lack of it, rather.”

Genna snorted, straightening and looking at her older brother with a bemused smile. "Are you implying Jaime was disciplined at that age?"

"Of course he was," Tywin said. "He was reckless and egotistical, yes, but he was disciplined. Joff will not earn his spurs until he learns how to take orders the first time they are given and without retort. And Ser Addam is still concerned about…other things."

Genna said nothing. She knew what he meant. Jaime enjoyed fighting, had taken to drills and techniques with relish. But Joffrey grew bored with drills and lessons. He simply enjoyed striking things. In fact she was a little surprised that Red was sparring with him at all, since despite the year he had on Joffrey in age, Red was more than a little afraid of him.

"Things were different when Jaime was his age," Genna said, eventually. At fifteen Jaime had not only been given his knighthood, but had already been half a year wed to Princess Elia of Dorne, sealing the last agreement Joanna had made before she died.

Thinking about Elia and Joanna and the days before the rebellion made Genna's chest ache. She pressed one hand to her breast over her heart, as though that would help.

Tywin watched her. “Are you unwell?”

“Not unwell, no.” Genna straightened and turned to face him with a tight smile. “Just thinking.”

Her brother looked back at her for a moment longer. He seemed about to say something, then turned abruptly, resting his hands on the parapet and leaning over to call down to the two boys, barking at them to finish and come in for breakfast.

* * *

They were only five at the table that morning; Genna and Tywin, Joff and Red, and Tion, since Casterly Rock was currently playing host to no important guests, and Emmon was off visiting some nephew or good-brother or distant Frey relation that Genna couldn’t be bothered to keep track of.

“There was a raven from King’s Landing this morning,” Tywin said after the food he been served. “From Jaime. King Robert will be hosting a tourney in celebration of Lord Stark’s appointment as Hand of the King.” He looked down the table. “Joffrey, I think it would be a good idea if you were to ride in it.”

Joffrey looked pleased by that suggestion. “Will Father be as well?”

“He did not say but I would assume he is,” Tywin said.

“Will Joff ride against cousin Jaime?” Red asked, looking mildly alarmed.

Genna snorted. “I highly doubt it, and Joff should be quite glad of that.”

“When will I leave?” Joffrey asked, though the corners of his mouth had tightened at Genna’s words.

“Tomorrow morning,” Tywin said. “I will be sending Sandor Clegane as your guard.”

Now Joffrey let out a disbelieving scoff. “My guard?! I’m a man grown, nearly a knight, and the kingslayer’s son, I don’t need a — ” But he stopped, thrown into silence by the cold look his grandfather was giving him.

“I said your guard, not your nursemaid, though if you keep behaving this way perhaps we _would_ be better served sending you with the latter,” Tywin said sharply. “Do you think your father would travel so far alone? Especially bearing a message of no small importance?”

The boy did not look cowed in the least, but his annoyance did turn slightly to interest now. “What message?”

“Don’t you mind the contents, it’s for your father,” Tywin said. “And I will only trust you with it if you can behave. Else I will entrust it to the Hound.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Joffrey said.

Tywin studied him for a long moment, then turned to Tion. “I want you to go as well.”

Tion straightened, alert, but Genna saw her son’s fingers tighten around his fork and he glanced questioningly at her rather than reply to his uncle.

Genna had to take a drink of her tea before she could speak. She looked at Tywin. “Why?”

“Because Casterly Rock must be well represented,” Tywin said, sharply. “Why else?”

She gazed at her brother, resisting the momentary urge to fling the plate of eggs at him. Had she truly wanted to start a row she would have instead flung some comment comparing him to their father, but she stopped herself from doing that either. Instead she gave him a tight smile. “We can discuss this further after breakfast.”

“As you like, though I’m not certain what else there is to discuss,” Tywin said, lifting his utensils and turning his focus to his food.

Out of the corner of her eye Genna saw Tion open his mouth to speak, but she lifted her hand and he sat back. Taking a deep breath, Genna turned to Joffrey. “It will be nice for you to see your parents and siblings again. It’s been nearly a year, hasn’t it?”

“Over,” Joffrey said after swallowing a mouthful of food. “I wasn’t here the last time they came.”

“Don’t you miss them?” asked Red.

Joffrey looked at his cousin and shrugged.

“I’m glad I got to stay here with mine,” Red said.

“We’ve very different mothers,” Joffrey said absently. “Mine couldn’t handle me.”

Silence met that remark. Genna blinked, and Tywin set his knife down. Joffrey didn’t look up, but she could tell by the quirk of his mouth that he had been well aware the effect his comment would have.

Tywin, thankfully, was well used to his grandson’s antics and merely raised an eyebrow. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said.” Joffrey tilted his chin up a little, showing a defiance to Tywin that few other people in the Seven Kingdoms would dare. “I know Mother and Father sent me here because I was too much for them.”

“Who in the gods’ names told you that?” Genna asked.

“My eyes,” Joffrey said.

“You’re speaking nonsense,” Tywin said with a scoff. “Your parents sent you here to squire for Ser Addam, which you know full well. Suggesting otherwise is not only disrespectful to your parents but to him as well. Your father was eleven when I sent him to squire for Lord Sumner Crakehall and he was there for longer than you’ve been here. It is how things are done if you want to be a knight.”

Joffrey glanced across the table. “Unless you’re a Frey, apparently,” he said, his gaze focusing for a moment on Tion, and then on Red.

“And you are finished with breakfast, _apparently_ ,” Tywin said. He pointed to the door. “Go do something useful with yourself. I’ll speak with you later.”

Joffrey didn’t move. Genna had the fleeting thought that he looked even more like Jaime just then, with that little cocksure smile on his face, except Jaime would have never used that expression on Tywin. Even now. For a moment the two of them stared each other down, but Joffrey was the first to look away, tossing his napkin on the floor and getting to his feet, chin in the air as he stalked out of the solar.

After his footsteps had disappeared down the hall, Tion muttered, “He’s such an ass.”

“I’ll pretend I did not hear that,” Tywin said. “Now finish eating.”

* * *

After breakfast Genna followed Tywin up to his study, a large corner room in the main tower, with one bank of windows facing north and another facing west towards the sea. There were bookshelves, and a stone fireplace over which hung a shield with the Lannister lion emblazoned on it, but besides that the only décor was a small portrait of Joanna that had been painted sometime after the twins’ birth.

“Am I allowed to know what this message is you are having Joff hand deliver to Jaime?” Genna asked, watching Tywin walk over to sit behind his large oak desk.

“It’s nothing I couldn’t have delivered by raven,” Tywin said. “Joffrey tends to cooperate better when he believes he’s doing something important. It pertains to his and Myrcella’s marriage prospects.”

Genna raised her eyebrows.

“Joffrey will be the heir to Casterly Rock someday,” Tywin said. “He especially could make a beneficial union with another family.” Seeing the look Genna was giving him, Tywin’s mouth tightened. “Jaime and Cersei nearly brought this house to ruin with their foolishness, the least they can do is see that something useful comes of it.”

“Gods be good,” Genna said, walking over and dropping into one of the chairs before his desk. “And you wonder where Joff gets his dramatics from? ‘Nearly brought this house to ruin?’ Please.”

Tywin frowned at her. “You know full well what I mean. Were they anyone else— _anyone—_ there would be no hope of making worthwhile matches for their children.”

“Jaime and Cersei’s mistakes--”

“Incest is not 'a mistake,'” Tywin snapped. “And were our name not worth what it is not a single lord in Westeros would want to marry his son or daughter to the product of it. Robert should have never allowed them to wed. I should never have sent them back to King’s Landing together.”

Genna could feel her annoyance rising. This was an old argument, one they had repeated over and over since the rebellion and she was growing sick of it. “You should have never left Jaime and Elia here without protection, you should have never trusted Gregor Clegane, you should have brought Cersei back here after the Tourney at Harrenhal instead of leaving her with the Mad King. You should have done a great number of things, Tywin, but you did not. And so here we are. Why must you continue to dwell on things that did not happen? Our name _is_ worth what it is, and you know there are countless lords who would kill their own mother to marry their daughter to Joffrey, or son to Myrcella.”

“I believe you enjoy trying my patience, Genna,” Tywin said, sourly.

“And I _know_ you enjoy trying mine,” Genna replied. “Why would you decide to send Tion away without consulting me first? You are not his father.”

Tywin lifted his brows and gave her a long look and she could almost hear him thinking ‘ _neither is Emmon Frey_ ,’ but he did not speak that aloud. “You should not play favorites with your children,” is what he did say, in a much lighter tone. “It will be good for him, he’s only ridden in one tourney before. And you know he idolizes Jaime. You will have Red here still. Besides...” he shifted, looking down and absently straightening a stack of papers. “He is one of the few who does not allow himself to be bullied by Joffrey.”

“I cannot argue with that,” Genna said with a sigh.

“It’s Cersei’s doing, I’m sure,” Tywin continued. “Joffrey, that is. She coddled him too much, just as she is doing with Tommen.”

Genna one again felt like slapping him. "You are so quick to blame your daughter for everything. You blame her for how the children are, you blame her for seducing Jaime, you probably blame her for letting Rhaegar abandon her for the Stark girl."

"Careful," Tywin said, glancing at her with a frown.

"Absolutely not," Genna said, unphased. "You don't intimidate me, Tywin, you should know that by now. Now tell me what the real problem is because I can see that something's got you worried."

He studied her for a long moment, then said quietly, "Financial troubles."

"Financial troubles? What in the seven hells are you talking about?"

Lips pursed, Tywin leaned over and opened one of the desk drawers, taking out a ledger which he opened and slid across to Genna, tapping at the top of a column of numbers. She frowned down at it, noting the production figures of the mines below Casterly Rock for the past five years. "Gods, is this right?" she said.

"Unfortunately," Tywin murmured. "I had been hoping Mace Tyrell would consider Joff for his daughter Margaery, but she's already betrothed to Renly Baratheon. Still his son Loras is but a few years older than Myrcella—don't give me that look I _know_ what's said about him, it doesn't matter."

"Who do you suggest for Joffrey then?" Genna asked, closing the ledger and passing it back to him.

"Lord Stark's elder daughter is my first choice. She is of an age with him, and comely from what I have heard." Tywin folded his hands on the desk. "Our relationship with the Starks is tenuous at best, but we could strengthen it, to the benefit of both houses. Or, failing that, I would suggest Arianne Martell."

Genna let out a bark of laughter at that. "Prince Doran would never—"

"Doran, no, not on his own," Tywin said. "But Oberyn would do anything for Jaime, including, I am certain, persuading his brother to agree to the match."

"She's a decade older that Joff," Genna said, though she knew that mattered little. Arianne Martell would be the reigning princess of Dorne after her father, and that was not a title Tywin would pass up over something as inconsequential as a difference in age.

"I have put forth my suggestions in the letter," Tywin said, in a firm, finalizing tone. "Jaime may add what he thinks before we come to a final decision on who to approach first.”

Genna nodded, folding her hands in her lap. Studying her brother for a moment however she could practically see that shrewd and calculating mind of his working furiously behind the gold-flecked-green eyes. It was not just his grandchildren’s marriage prospects or the Lannister coffers or even the failures of his children that were troubling him. She sat forward, just a little and said, “What else?”

“War looms, as certain as the end of summer,” Tywin said, replying quick enough to surprise her with his certainty. “Stannis Baratheon’s actions are not those of a content man. Jaime says that Jon Arryn’s death was not unsuspicious and I am inclined to agree. And there are still Targaryens, a world away, yes, but they are out there.”

“And you think all of this means war?”

Tywin raised a thin eyebrow, tilting his chin up. “It always does.”


	9. Rhaenna

Life with the Dothraki had a rhythm to it, pounding, sure and steady and regular, like the beat of the _khalasar's_ hooves on the packed earth. The first fortnight out of Pentos had been the worst; they did not stop for more than one night at a time, traveling from dawn to dusk. Rhaenna found herself so exhausted each night when she finally collapsed onto her bedroll after dinner that even the ache of overused muscles and the pain of the blisters on her hands were not enough to keep her from sleeping.

She did little for that first stretch of their journey besides ride and sleep and eat and ride and sleep – but bit by bit, Rhaenna found herself adjusting. Dany was too, she could tell, not only to their new nomadic life but to her new husband as well, and one evening she even confessed she was beginning to enjoy her nights with the _khal_.

Viserys, on the other hand, seemed determined to do the exact opposite. He refused to give up his usual clothing for the more practical leggings and leather vests of the Dothraki, and was, by his own fault, thoroughly miserable beneath the baking sun. The upside to that was that his own exhaustion seemed enough to distract him from bothering Dany or Rhaenna too much.

It was a warm, pleasant evening two days after they reached the border of the sprawling grasslands known as the Dothraki Sea. Khal Drogo had slowed their pace now and said they would rest for two nights and a day, for which even the most adept riders were grateful. Rhaenna had set up her bedroll in the large tent she shared with a handful of other unmarried women before going down to wash some of the dust of the day from her skin in a clear pond at the edge of camp.

After learning the hard way that her pale skin burned easily in the hot sun, Rhaenna had taken to wearing a light linen tunic under her vest and for comfort when she was riding, binding her breasts with a strip of fabric. She removed all of these now as she knelt by the water's edge, no longer bothered by others seeing her nakedness since the Dothraki did not seem to find a shirtless woman any more remarkable than a shirtless man.

She had grown lean, both from the physical demands of nomadic life and from training daily with Ser Jorah. The muscles of her arms and shoulders were more defined now, and she felt strong in a way that sent a delighted thrill through her. She was a different woman than the one who had left Pentos over a fortnight previous. The last of the color had left her hair as well, leaving her locks shining the true silver-blonde of the Targaryens.

"It will be so nice to have some proper rest for once!"

Rhaenna looked up at the sound of Dany's voice and smiled. Her aunt had walked over and sat down heavily on the grass beside her, looking tired but no longer as unhappy as she had when they first started out. "Where is Viserys?" Rhaenna asked.

"I don't know," Dany said. She moved a little closer, leaning over to scoop up some water in her cupped palms and splash it against her bare chest. She somehow did not seem as bothered by the heat of the sun as Rhaenna was, her skin nowhere near as quick to burn beneath it. "To be perfectly honest I do not particularly care where he is. Drogo can't stand him."

"What a surprise, I wonder why that could possibly be," Rhaenna said.

Dany giggled and gave her arm a light push. "How goes your training? Jorah said you've taken to the sword as though you were born with one in your hand."

"It is difficult but I enjoy it," Rhaenna said. She sat back, using her tunic to dry herself a little before shrugging just her painted vest back on, enjoying the feeling of the cool evening breeze on her skin. "It is good to feel…strong."

Something flashed across Dany's face at that. Jealousy? Longing? Then just as quickly she smiled. "If _khaleesis_ had their own bloodriders you and Ser Jorah would be among mine. Oh – Drogo wishes for you to eat at our fire tonight."

"Good," Rhaenna said, sitting back and resting her arms on her knees. "I'm not sure I could eat if I had to spend one more evening listening to Qothi moan about whatever man has been troubling her lately. It's enough to make me wish I didn't know as much Dothraki as I do now."

Dany laughed, her face lighting up with a carefree amusement that had been rare to see since her wedding. She leaned back on her hands, stretching her legs out before her. "And how is Shiqi?"

"She is…a good friend," Rhaenna said, smiling. "She's been teaching me a great deal."

"But not sharing your bed?" Dany asked.

Rhaenna flushed and looked down. There was a small beetle crawling across her thigh and she focused on it for a moment, coaxing it onto her finger, though it flew away after only half a heartbeat. "Yes. But as I said, she is a friend, and I feel as though that is more what I need right now."

"You say that as though you are not well liked," Dany said, watching her. "I've heard what the others say of you. You are bold, but quick and eager to learn the ways of the _khalasar_ , that has earned you a great deal of respect, especially…" she lowered her voice, "…Especially with how Viserys has been behaving."

"Not a particularly high standard to be pitted against," Rhaenna said. She gazed at Dany and saw her expression grow troubled once more. "What is it?"

Dany did not answer right away. She glanced around, scanning the bustling activity about them, her violet eyes darting from side to side. With that tense wariness she looked for just a moment like one of the tawny hares that Shiqi had taught Rhaenna to hunt. Dany must have been making sure Viserys was nowhere near, though when she spoke next it was not of her brother. "Rhaenna, do you remember my father?"

"No," Rhaenna said after a moment's hesitation, her brow furrowing. "I don't think so. I was two years old when we fled Westeros. I have only vague memories of then…and it is hard to say which are real and which are dreams. I think I remember your mother. Standing with her and hearing the sound of waves crashing on the rocks below. But that is all. Why?"

"I know he was called the Mad King," Dany said, the corners of her mouth turning down a little. "Viserys says it was slander. Ser Jorah says otherwise. I used to believe Viserys, but…he frightens me, Rhaenna, even worse than before. Yesterday he was…furious about something, I do not even recall because all I can think about is how when I looked into his eyes I did not know the man I saw there."

Rhaenna reached for her hand. There was a great deal she wanted to say to Dany just then, but she didn't know that most of it would be any help. So instead she smiled and said simply, "We don't need him. We've never needed him."

* * *

It was a good thing in the end that they had taken those days of rest, for they had been traveling again for barely half a day when one of the outrider scouts came riding up to the head of the column to speak with Khal Drogo in such a hurried tone that Rhaenna could only catch a few words from where she rode just behind the Khal and his bloodriders with Dany, Viserys and Ser Jorah.

"What is he saying?" Dany asked, glancing at Jorah, who wore a frown.

"Another _khalasar_ heading towards us. Khal Jhono, it sounds like," Jorah said. He glanced at the three Targaryens beside him. "When two _khalasars_ meet on the sea there is almost always a fight."

They had come to a stop then. Rhaenna glanced ahead of them and saw Drogo sitting straight backed, head turning as he scanned the waving grasses spread out before them. His bloodriders were laughing and practically vibrating with eager energy, but the scout who had come to tell them of Jhono's approach was still speaking with the _khal_ and his face was worried.

Jorah continued to translate. "He is saying that Jhono's _khalasar_ has grown since they last crossed paths, and that he has new bloodriders. He seems concerned."

Drogo must have heard that. Bells tinkling softly in his hair he turned to Jorah, the corners of his mouth curving in a grim smile as he spoke.

"What did he say?" Viserys asked, and Rhaenna was both amused and annoyed to note the tension in her uncle's voice.

Dany lifted her chin, gazing at her _khal_ with a look of pride. "That we will crush them beneath our hooves."

Turning to look at the massive column behind them, Rhaenna could see a ripple of activity as word of the approach moved through the _khalasar_. Sunlight glinted off the blades of _arakhs_ as they were removed from saddles and wagons. Bows were being strung, arrows fetched. The neat line was breaking apart as those too young or old to fight were spread out to make less easy targets. They moved with such ease that she could only guess this was no rare occurrence.

Several men who Rhaenna recognized as some of Drogo's most favored fighters after his bloodriders rode up and surrounded her, Viserys, Jorah and Dany, though Jorah moved to speak with them in the clipped air of a commander, and they listened and nodded. Viserys shifted anxiously in his saddle, head darting from side-to-side.

Rhaenna could feel a nervous sort of energy running through her own body, but she was surprised when it burst in a thrill of excitement in her chest. She nudged her horse closer to Viserys'. "You aren't afraid of a few savages, are you?" she said to him.

"Excuse me?" Viserys said, turning to look at her, his violet eyes flashing. "Of course I'm not afraid, don't be stupid. What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Rhaenna had leaned over, unclipping _Dark Sister_ from where the blade had hung from her saddle and attaching it instead to her belt. "I want my sword in easy reach."

Viserys' expression turned to a look of annoyance and disgust. "You don't actually think you're going to fight, do you? You're a _woman_. I've only allowed you to continue training with Ser Jorah because it keeps you from doing other more embarrassing things."

Rhaenna extended one hand, pointing at two of the fighters speaking with Jorah, both women in their fifties, lean and hard, their brown skin marked with scars of a hundred fights, though both bore braids almost as long as their _khals_ , shining with dozens of silver bells.

"I should have left you in Pentos," Viserys hissed, but his words were nearly drowned out by the sudden shouts and ululating cries that went up when the first riders of Khal Jhono's _khalasar_ were spotted, or rather, when the dust sent up from their horses was spotted as a growing cloud on the horizon.

Dany, eyes wide, turned and looked to Rhaenna. "Stay by me?" she said, holding her hand out to her niece.

Rhaenna nudged her horse forward to Dany's side, taking her hand and giving it a brief squeeze. "I will stay by you," she whispered.

It seemed like an eternity as they waited for the other _khalasar_ to reach them, but when it did, utter chaos erupted.

No matter what Jorah had told her of true battles, Rhaenna realized in the space of a single heartbeat that she was completely unprepared for what it was truly like. Her senses were so overwhelmed in that first shattering moment that she nearly gave in to the urge to bolt—and indeed she saw Viserys do just that, rather than moving when their Dothraki guard urged them to, slowly and purposefully.

Jorah had told her that death smelled like blood and shit, and Rhaenna quickly discovered he was right. Horses and humans alike screamed around her, everything was a blur and she couldn't tell who was friend or foe. She thought she could even _taste_ the fight as she breathed in through gritted teeth, holding the reins of her mount tightly with her left hand as her right remained closed around _Dark Sister's_ grip.

There was nowhere to run, even if they had wanted to. On the flat grasslands the battle spread like a bucket of milk spilled onto a marble floor, staining the pale golden grass red and brown.

Their guard broke, forced apart to defend their _khaleesi_. Rhaenna lost sight of Jorah and felt a spike of panic in her chest.

And then a rider was bearing down on her and Dany.

The sunlight glinted off the rippling Valyrian steel of _Dark Sister_ before Rhaenna had even realized she had drawn it. Their assailant was a huge man, muscled, and his braid was short but his eyes were filled with the look of bloodlust. Fear rose in her again, but Rhaenna forced it back, telling herself this was another training exercise, that she was capable of this, that she had to be capable of this—where the _fuck_ were their guards?

Dany screamed something beside her, but it sounded distant and muffled.

The rider was approaching them so fast, shouting, his curved _arakh_ shining sharp and deadly.

Skilled fighters are not fast, they are _controlled_ , Jorah had told her. What most people saw in swordplay and interpreted as speed was in truth a honed combination of fluidity, timing and control.

Breathe, Rhaenna told herself.

_I am the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen._

_I am the blood of the dragon, the blood of old Valyria, the blood of Aegon the Conqueror._

Her lips curled back from her teeth in a snarl.

The force of the _arakh_ catching on her blade sent a painful jolt all the way to her shoulder, but _Dark Sister_ was a part of her now and Rhaenna did not drop it, not even as her attacker tried to twist the _arakh_ to disarm her. They were so close that Rhaenna could smell him, the musky sweat of his body and his horse, the sweet oil in his hair. His short hair.

_Trying to win some honor back perhaps by taking Drogo's silver khaleesi?_

Desperation was as dangerous as fear on the battlefield, Jorah had also told her.

Rhaenna bared her teeth again, this time in a smile. She screamed at the man and knocked his _arakh_ loose from her blade with enough force to make him lose his form.

He came back down from above, and she met the blow, but it was not the steel of his _arakh_ that _Dark Sister_ kissed; Rhaenna had turned and leaned forward and brought her sword up beneath the man's arm, biting deep into his flesh and in those precious moments where he was realizing that his nearly-severed limb had dropped his weapon, she drove the point through the man's throat.

Looking into his dark eyes, Rhaenna saw the life go from them.

There was no time to linger on that, however. As soon as the man fell from his horse others were charging them and her attention snapped from the first man to the next. She barely realized that at least two of their guard had returned and were fighting with her in a loose circle with Dany at the center of it. All of Rhaenna's focus was on where the enemy was, where her own body was, where her blade needed to move next, and always to _breathe, breathe, breathe._

The fight did not last long. They rarely did, Jorah had said, though they always felt much longer, and indeed when Rhaenna looked around and realized there were no living enemies left she could feel the exhaustion wash over her like a wave, causing her to slump in her saddle and making it difficult to return _Dark Sister_ to her sheath.

"Rhaenna!" Dany gasped, and she was right beside her then, wrapping her arms around Rhaenna and clinging to her despite the blood splattered over Rhaenna's skin and clothes. "Rhaenna, Rhaenna. oh _gods_ …"

Rhaenna let her focus slip now that they were safe. She leaned into Dany's embrace, was vaguely aware of commotion around them, the aftermath of the fight, her and Dany being forced to separate after a moment, being led by others to where tents had been set up so that everyone could rest and recover.

Jorah helped her out of the saddle, and Dany's own handmaids rushed to wash the blood from Rhaenna and to tend to the cut on her arm that she had not even realized she had taken. She felt dizzy now, even after drinking deeply from the waterskin Dany pressed into her hands.

Irri had just finished bandaging Rhaenna's arm when a shadow fell over them an she looked up to see Khal Drogo with a smile on his face, Qotho on his left and Jorah on his right.

Rhaenna got to her feet, blinking slowly.

Drogo grinned and clapped her on the shoulder with one hand, holding the other out to her so she could see the silver bell in his palm. "You took the lives of three men who tried to harm the moon of my life," he said. "Today was a victory for you, _hrakkari_."

For a moment Rhaenna could only stare at him, but this did not seem to offend Drogo, who merely laughed and took her hand, pressing the bell into her palm. He squeezed her shoulder again, then, while she was still staring at the bell, turned and strode off with Qotho.

Jorah and Dany gathered around Rhaenna.

"Ser Jorah," Rhaenna said. "What does ' _hrakkari_ ' mean?"

"The _hrakkar_ are a breed of lion native to the Dothraki Sea," Jorah said with a smile. "They have silver white fur, are quite rare and incredibly fierce. He was calling you 'white lioness.'"

Rhaenna looked up at him. "Does he know? That the lion is the sigil of my mother's house?"

"I do not believe he does, my lady," Jorah said. He smiled, watching as Dany took the bell from Rhaenna so she could braid it into her hair. "I think as of today there is no question of whose daughter you truly are."

Rhaenna smiled. She tilted her head from side to side, listening to the soft sound of the bell in her hair.

_Rhaenna Targaryen_ , she thought. _I am Rhaenna Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Cersei Lannister. The chimera princess. The white lioness._

_That is who I am._


End file.
